


Courting Trauma

by JulianObviouslyLovesToad



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Autism, Bad Decisions, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Black Character(s), Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Childhood Trauma, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Flashbacks, Gay Male Character, General Insensitivity, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Interracial Relationship, Kazakhstani-American Characters, Lesbian Character, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Multi, Panic Attacks, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racist Language, Self-Harm, Trans Character, Veterans, bad behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-10 03:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 61,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6937795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulianObviouslyLovesToad/pseuds/JulianObviouslyLovesToad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We're all fucked up in some way," might have been the most refreshing words any of them had ever heard. There was no need for useless platitudes here, they were all so tired of them. Tired of being walking shells filled with apologies, tired of others apologizing or averting their eyes. Tired of being thanked for murdering dozens or being the one freak that doesn't molest their children. "Like, what can you do, amirite?"</p><p>Or</p><p>That one story in which a transman, an autistic man, a bisexual ex-Muslim drunk, five army vets and a half dozen high schoolers take on the world.</p><p>New tags will be added as the story progresses. Please heed them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The case of Anthony Wright is a curious one, if one cares to look. Born Antonia Grace Wright, to parents whose names are unimportant to his tale, he leads a seemingly quiet life. He teaches English at a quiet, out of the way high school in the early hours, volunteering his time as a secretary at a VA clinic in Dayton, Ohio in the evenings. He seems unperturbed by most things, a small, warm smile always on his face, which is a breath of fresh air to the guys and gals that pass his desk in the later hours of the day.

He doesn’t give a motherly frown when Mary Clark comes in for an emergency meeting with her shrink, her lip split open and bleeding because some asshole said the wrong thing to her in a bar and she may have gotten into a fight. He just hands her a tissue and sends an email labeled urgent to Dr. Mitchell, and he isn’t outwardly offended when she doesn’t say thank you. Such platitudes have no use in that little office, anyway.

He doesn’t click his tongue or offer meaningless words of comfort when Joel Rogers grips the edge of the counter with meaty, tattooed paws, looking lost to all around him. He doesn’t offer a hand, or water or anything as the man’s face turns red and his chest heaves as he walks himself through his breathing exercises. He does, however, offer a cup of coffee to the little black woman at his side, knowing that he needs to get her away from her husband for a moment. She never wants to leave his side, especially with their first child on the way, but she always eventually wanders over to the coffee pot and loads her coffee with sugar. He sometimes thinks that caffeine might not be the best thing for a pregnant woman, but she never finishes the cup anyway, just holds it so she has something to do with her hands that isn’t clinging to the man she loves. Anthony waits, pulling up the spreadsheet of appointments to see if Joel is scheduled that day, not looking at the other expectantly. Anthony knows the other is already aware of what is expected of him, and that staring at him won’t move things along any faster.

He talks to Roderick Kelly about his fake leg, much to the dismay of all those in the area who haven’t seen combat. Family, friends, and significant others still look horrified as Roderick barks out a laugh and scratches his three inch long beard before telling a story about how his niece painted it. Anthony’s smile reaches his eyes then, because he’s seen the girl and she’s precious.

He doesn’t bat an eye at Henry Powell’s racist or homophobic slurs, doesn’t smile any more than usual when the older man promises Anthony that the homophobic slurs don’t apply to him. It’s well known around the office that Anthony is gay, and even those with the most conservative beliefs like him anyway.

He did mess up a bit at first with the inseparable Torres twins, flirting with Tony, the one with the empty eye socket. But in time, they forgive him, and he forgives himself because what’s done is done, and it wasn’t the worst thing he could have done.

He’s tired every night when he gets home, and he certainly doesn’t envy the shrinks. He doesn’t envy the school counselors, either, even if he does occasionally play double duty as one for a handful of students who only trust him. He knows a thing or two about trauma, even if it doesn’t look like he does, all unassuming in his cotton blazer and loose dress slacks. He slips out of his clothes and washes away the day, crawls into bed and lets the sound of his boyfriend, Alex’s, breathing lull him to sleep, smiling when the taller man throws an arm around him.

In the morning he combs his hair and complains about needing to get it cut because it won’t lay right while Alex makes omelets. The two eat, and the taller man informs Anthony about how the Blue Jackets did in their game the previous night, making the blonde teacher smile. Anthony kisses Alex before he heads out the door and he doesn’t miss the wavering, uncertain smile that passes over his angular features, but he doesn’t say anything because Alex isn’t comfortable addressing it yet.

Alex is autistic. High functioning, holding down a part time job, but mostly enjoying being Anthony’s housewife. He loves to cook, the sounds of things sizzling and popping on the stove being some of the most comforting sounds he’s ever heard. He especially loves weekends, when Anthony is home all day, curled up on the couch grading papers or reading a book and Alex gets to cook all three of his meals while they blast a recording of the most recent game of whatever sport is in season just quiet enough not to bother the neighbors. He plays with his hair, twirling the long, dyed golden strands while Anthony is away, until Chelsea from work comes over, already half-drunk with a bottle of whiskey in hand.

Chelsea is tall, and a little on the thick side, but not unappealingly so. She drinks a lot, slapping Alex’s hand when he’s been playing with his hair for too long, grinning unapologetically when he blushes and looks sheepish. She sets the bottle aside and wraps her lightly furred arms around him when Alex stuffs his hands in his jean pockets to keep from doing anything with them. Her short, dark hair tickles the side of his face and he leans into the contact.

It feels a little like love, like how he feels when Anthony takes his face in both hands and looks up at him with big blue eyes and a wide smile, but he doesn’t say anything.

Anthony teaches two classes before lunch. He doesn’t have a study hall during lunch like the bulk of the other teachers do, so he heads to his car while texting Alex, like he does every day. He puts his phone in his pocket because he knows it’ll be a moment before the other responds, and looks up to find Jeremy Regal, a mop of shaggy brown hair and oversized clothes, leaning against his old, abused Saturn. The seventeen year old is smoking a cigarette, but Anthony doesn’t admonish him for it. It wouldn’t be fair, he thinks, since he’d started smoking at the ripe old age of ten.

“Calling it an early day?” Anthony asks, taking out his own pack.

“Nah,” the boy answers, moving to the side so Anthony can sit in the driver’s seat. After a moment, after hearing the sound of the passenger’s side door being unlocked for him, Jeremy climbs in the car. The youth rolls down the window to flick his ash outside, then relaxes back against the seat. “I got an A on my history test,” the boy says. He sounds flippant, almost absent, but Anthony knows the boy is desperate for attention and praise.

“That’s good to hear,” the blonde answers, smiling. “What was it over?”

“Cold War,” Jeremy says, something warm working its way into his expression.

The two smoke in silence, the older man smiling again when he reads a text about how Chelsea and Alex are curled up on the couch watching the second Iron Man movie.

Anthony knows there’s something going on between his boyfriend and Chelsea because he talks to her about it. She’s incredibly open about everything, painting vibrant pictures with words, slinging emotions around everywhere. It’s not entirely unwelcome. He may be gay, but he has a platonic love for this woman, this young twenty-six year old menace with a pixie cut and smeared black eyeliner. He sometimes envies her ability to express herself, as he isn’t a very openly expressive person, but would gladly turn that ability away if it came with the bottle almost perpetually attached to her hand. As he sent a smiling face emoji back, he wished that Alex didn’t feel like his own affection for the woman was a betrayal of Anthony’s trust.

She’s good for them both, even if they don’t want to admit it. Alex is more expressive with Chelsea around, even if it is sometimes only disappointment at how stumbling drunk she is. But even too drunk to tie her own shoes she’s tender with Alex, and Anthony by proxy, allowing him a brief break from trying to bring his partner out of his shell when he is himself a bit tired of expressing and explaining his feelings. Anthony feels a bit bad for it, but the feeling never lasts long. She’s just better at expressing herself. Through song, dance, or drawing, she helps them both, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Anthony is good with words, but reserves them most of the time. He developed a strong distaste for small talk and empty platitudes in his youth, having grown up wealthy. He’d always been amazed, in the worst way possible, how his socialite parents had been able to yammer about nothing for hours at events they went to. He did his best not to pour over mismatched memories of galas and charity events, reminding himself that lunch break was not the proper time or place to sort out which bruise went with which harsh words and which ball gown.

Jeremy must have sensed his unease because he asked, around the filter of his third cigarette, “what’re you bringing for a snack on Friday?”

“Apple slices,” he answered with a good-natured huff, blowing a strand of hair out of his face. He thought about how he needed to get it cut once more when it fell back into place and tickled his eyebrow.

“Again?” Jeremy asked with a half-hearted groan.

“Rough week,” Anthony answered. Jeremy grunted at that.

“I know that feeling.”

Thursday evenings were usually quiet at the VA clinic. They remained quiet that evening when Duane Phillips strode in like he owned the place, bright pink lips pulled back from perfect white teeth. His green tank top with the shoulder straps stretched and pulled until they hung limply over his shapely shoulders doing nothing to hide the massive scarring over his left side. It almost looked like someone had splattered the dark skinned man with fading pink paint from ear to hip, or from ear to mid-forearm with what Anthony could see, scars no longer raised or angry, rather healed and smooth.

If Anthony thought the skin discoloration made the man before him, leaning over his desk with his unscarred arm, look like a work of art, he did nothing to show it.

“Hey there,” the man said, his smile only the slightest bit pinched. It didn’t quite make his eyes and Anthony flagged it fake in his mind, but answered with an equally personable,

“Hiya,” and a minute tilt of his head.

“Phillips, six-thirty with Dr. Mitchell,” Duane said.

“You’re early,” Anthony noted, an almost happy inflection to his voice.

“Yeah, well, you know how it is. The gym can only handle me for so long.”

The appearance of Duane Phillips didn’t change anything that evening at the VA, but as Anthony stripped for the shower, he looked at his own shoulders in the mirror.

Years of weight training and testosterone had given him thick, bulky shoulders that he was happy with, and happy to hide under clothing that was a size too big for him. He ran his hand over his left shoulder and it looked wrong for some reason, out of place in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. There were a few pockmarks and older scars there that had turned white and blended in with his skin with age, and a few freckles here and there, but to look at his body still felt strange.

He blinked away those thoughts and stepped under the warm spray, paying more attention to his shoulders with the aloe infused soap than he usually would. When he dried and dressed, he found his boyfriend in their bed with his laptop on his knobby knees. Anthony smiled at the sight and climbed into the bed, burying his face in his lover’s cotton-clad side and drifting off to sleep to the sounds of whatever thing the other was listening to on YouTube.


	2. Chapter 2

Friday is a rough day for everyone involved.

Anthony wound up being more than a few minutes late to work because Alex didn’t want to let him go that morning, but the sounds of kids crunching on crisp apple slices start to ease his frayed nerves.

Jeremy wound up hanging back during lunch. He skipped his study hall to stay in Mr. Wright’s classroom, but that happened on occasion. He had a black eye, and that happened on occasion, too. Anthony didn’t ask what happened, assuming Jeremy’s other classmates and teachers had badgered him about it all morning. Instead, he asks,

“You put ice on that yet?” not looking up from what he’s grading.

Jeremy starts, head snapping up from his paper plate of apple slices. “Nah,” he says after a minute, “it doesn’t hurt anymore unless I touch it, so,” and he trails off, letting the words hang in the air.

“You want an icepack?” Anthony asks, looking up but not yet putting his pen down. He assumes Jeremy is going to say no, but offering is the polite thing to do.

“Do you think I need it?” Jeremy asked, pushing his long, curly hair out of his face.

“It might help with the swelling,” Anthony says with a slight shrug. “Could numb it.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jeremy says dismissively. He eats another apple slice, chewing it loudly before he asks, “you gonna ask me what happened?”

“I figured you’d tell me if you wanted me to know,” Anthony answers around the cap of the pen in his mouth. His eyes are trained on the paper, brow scrunched as he tries to translate something incomprehensible a student wrote.

“Thanks,” Jeremy said, his voice small. He stuffed another piece of fruit in his mouth to forget about the way he’d said that, to keep him from saying more in that tiny voice.

“I am curious as to the lie you’ve been telling people, though,” Anthony admits, giving up on that paper and setting it aside.  
“Basketball to the face,” Jeremy says, grinning.

“Do you even play basketball?”

“Nah, but no one else knows that.”

Anthony hums contemplatively. He sends Alex an obligatory daily lunchtime text, even though he knows the other works on Fridays.

He sticks around after school to use the gym, Jeremy hovering, finishing off the apple slices that the other kids didn’t eat. The skinny little mop, who is a few inches taller than Anthony, sits on a machine across from Anthony, who racks a little over two-hundred and fifty pounds on the bench press. If one of the gym teachers were in they’d have a conniption But they’re not around, so Anthony pushes himself. Jeremy doesn’t say anything, so Anthony doesn’t either. Not until Jeremy starts making these little sounds like he wants to be asked a question. Little aborted whining sounds somewhere in his throat.

“Something on your mind?” Anthony asks, taking a break. He stretches his arms before folding his hands over his stomach.

“You’re stronger than you look,” Jeremy says. “I wouldn’t have expected arms like that on you.”

“That’s what’s got you whining like that? Sorry, I’m not into kids,” Anthony teases.

“Excuse you,” Jeremy says mock indignantly. “Good thing I’m not into hairy old men, either.”

“I’m not old,” Anthony defends himself. “Not really hairy, either, I don’t think,” and he has the urge to look in a mirror. Jeremy scoffs and it brings the blonde back to the moment. “So really, what’s on your mind?”

“I- Can I talk to you?”

“Of course,” Anthony says, sitting upright.

“I just wanna tell someone how I really got this black eye,” and Jeremy isn’t making eye contact. He isn’t grinning deviously, or looking bored. He picks at the cracked plastic covering of the bench.

“I’m listening,” Anthony offers.

“I know you have to report stuff, but, can you, like, not? Just this once. I-” and he harrumphs, putting his hands in his armpits. Anthony takes a moment to respond, because he’s suspected child abuse in Jeremy’s case for weeks now. He knows dragging someone into legal action, that forcing new obligations on them isn’t the best way to get them out of a dangerous situation. He also knows he loves his job and doesn’t want to lose it.

“Sure,” he eventually says.

“Do you really mean that, or are you just saying that to placate me, then you’re going to make me go tell a counselor everything?” Jeremy asks, moving his hands from under his arms to stuff his hands in his hoodie pockets.

“If your life isn’t in danger, your secret is safe with me.”

“I- No, I don’t think my life is in danger. I don’t think it- I don’t think so. No, I know it’s not,” he says eventually, and Anthony can see his hands twisting in the fabric of the pockets. The blonde nods once and waits for Jeremy to continue. “My mom did it,” he admits and Anthony isn’t surprised. He knows what people are capable of. “Dad lost another job, and she was pissed. He’s bigger than her, so,” he trails off for a moment, “it’s not like they’d do that to each other, either. It’s just me, ‘cuz I’m a disappointment and all.”

“Why’s that?”

“Why’s what? Why am I a disappointment?” Anthony hums an affirmative. “’Cuz I’m pulling C’s in all my classes, and I’m probably not gonna get into college, and I don’t have a job yet. I’ve got three little sisters that mom and dad love, and I’m not doing anything to help support them.” Jeremy huffs out a sigh and shrugs.

“You can get into college on C’s, Jeremy,” Anthony says. “Won’t be anything fancy, but a community college is better than nothing. Fortunately or unfortunately.” The brunette smiles weakly in response, and Anthony continues, “and yeah, you should be thinking about getting a job, but school is more important. Maybe try one over the summer. It’ll get you out of the house and away from your mom. You’ll be able to save up money to move out.”

“Nah, I won’t. If I get a job, mom’ll expect a huge cut for my sisters.”

“Lie, then,” and Jeremy laughs at the irony of a teacher telling him to lie. “Get a decent summer job and tell her you’re working as a waiter. The minimum wage is lower for tipped workers, so you could hide a decent amount of your wages from her. Sure, she’d still take some of your money, but she wouldn’t know about all of it. You can cash your checks at Wal-Mart so she can’t monitor your bank account, and if you’re worried about her finding your money in your room, I could hold onto it for you. Or I could take you to get a bank account somewhere else. Somewhere that allows people over sixteen to have their own accounts. They exist.”

After staring in awe for a good minute, Jeremy starts to laugh. He almost falls off the bench, and grabs it to steady himself before laughing again, at himself. “This is why you’re my favorite teacher,” he admits between horking laughs.

“Because I tell you to lie?” Anthony asks, getting up. He unhooks the clips from the bar and starts pulling off the weights.

“Yah,” Jeremy says, “what other teacher is going to tell me to lie?” Anthony stops for a moment, tilting his head. He smiles at a memory of one of his favorite professors.

“My college professors told me to all the time.”

“What?” Jeremy asks, sounding like his mind was blown. “No way, man.”

“Mm-hm,” Anthony hums around the mouth of his water bottle. “Had one in particular I used to go to, well, his go-to response to most of my ‘what do I do in this scenario’ type questions was ‘lie out your ass,’” he said, chuckling. “’Tell them what they want to hear and get out of there as quick as you can,’ he’d say.”

“It work?”

“In a pinch, yeah,” Anthony answered. “I mean, if you can bullshit an A or earn a C, bullshit the A. Don’t cheat, but BSing isn’t cheating.”

“I don’t,” Jeremy said, oddly solemnly. “That’s probably why I have C’s. I could probably get solid B’s if I cheated.”

“Is there anything you need help with?” the older man asked, finishing off his water. “We can meet up at a McDonald’s or something and I can help you out. I’m not all that great at much outside the realm of English, but I’m sure I can manage high school classes.”

“I could probably stand some help with chemistry,” Jeremy admitted.

After a quick shower, Anthony somehow ends up with the fruit bowl on his head and a laughing Jeremy in his passenger seat. He drops the teen off just down the street from his house before heading to the VA clinic. He’s a few minutes late there, too, and the person behind the desk mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘sweet Jesus’ when he walks in the door, and quickly vacates the seat.

Mary is there again, seething. Anthony has no outward reaction to her ire, holding out a hand splayed toward the coffee machine. “Coffee?” he offers, and Mary laughs. It’s a bitter, sarcastic laugh, but at least she laughs. She calms down a bit. She stops pacing and clenching her fists. She sits and buries her face in her hands, willing herself not to cry.

It’s nine-thirty when Anthony gets home, but Alex has dinner on the table. Chicken and pierogi and steamed broccoli are still steaming when he walks in the door. In a rare showing of affection, Alex takes his shorter lover’s face in his hands and leans down to kiss the other’s face – his forehead, his cheeks and finally, his lips.

“Thank you, babe,” Anthony says, resting his hands over the backs of Alex’s. “I needed that,” he mutters, turning to press a kiss to Alex’s palm. The older man’s hands feel so big, but Anthony knows he’s just small. Sort of. Alex is a little taller than average, his shoulders and hands a little broader than average, but Anthony’s also a little shorter, a little thinner, a little curvier, so it’s no surprise that the differences in their size appear so stark. Or, it shouldn’t be, anyway.

Over dinner, Anthony wonders if he’s developing a Napoleon complex, and the two tell each other about their days. Alex worked that day, and brought Chelsea home with him. The short blonde lets out a bark of laughter when he finds the woman sprawled out on their couch, fast asleep and drooling. She wrinkles her nose in her sleep and snorts, but doesn’t wake up. Instead of waking her, moving her from the couch, the two get out a card table and folding chairs. They set them up in front of the TV and put the most recent Blue Jackets game for background noise. They’ve already watched it, but they like to have something going on in the background while they pay Egyptian Ratscrew.

Eventually Chelsea gets up, hobbles off to the bathroom and takes a loud leak before collapsing into Alex and Anthony’s bed. Alex curls up with her while Anthony goes to wash up. When he comes back, Alex’s face is red because Chelsea has curled herself around him. He looks nervous, but happy, his hand hovering over her hair because he’s unsure of whether or not he’s allowed to play with it. Anthony climbed into bed on the other side of the young woman, pushing her a bit until there was enough room for him to lay without feeling like he would fall off the bed. He figured he probably would at some point in the night, but he’s not too upset because it’s a weekend and sleep isn’t all that important when he doesn’t have to leave for work at five forty-five in the morning. He nudges Alex’s hand with his forehead until it rests in Chelsea’s hair, fitting his arm around the woman and resting his hand on Alex’s flat stomach.


	3. Chapter 3

The weekend is fairly quiet, and that’s just how Alex and Anthony like it – the only sounds in the house the hissing of things cooking and the animated ramblings of sportscasters.

Monday, Anthony brings with him cookies and milk and paper plates and little plastic cups. Jeremy is already sitting by his locked classroom door when he arrives, a younger boy who might be of Mediterranean descent sitting next to him. Anthony offers them cookies and the boy who isn’t in any of his classes takes one and thanks him quietly before bidding Jeremy farewell and wandering off.

“Neighbor,” Jeremy clarifies, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. “He hopped a ride with me this morning,” the younger man continues as Anthony unlocks the door to his classroom.

“I thought you walked,” Anthony said, throwing the door wide. He kept it open when only a few students were in his room to avoid any suspicion, to avoid any accusations from gabby coworkers who had their noses in his personal life. Everyone had an opinion, and they got tiring after a while.

“Usually, yah,” Jeremy says, standing around awkwardly as Anthony sets the cookies on the stand alone student-desk at the front of his classroom, then sets about emptying his gym bag, putting his lunch in the mini-fridge he kept behind his desk. He hasn’t been told not to yet, so he keeps it, one layer stocked with sodas of all kinds, another for his lunch and the lunches of students who ask him, nicely, to let them keep their food there. “But,” and Jeremy watches the door for a second, and when no one passes, he says, “mom was mad this morning, so dad decided to start his job search early and took me and Demetri in.”

“Demetri and I,” Anthony corrects, his suspicion of the boy being Mediterranean confirmed. Seemed like a Greek name.

“Man,” Jeremy groused, and Anthony smiled.

“I’d be negligent in my duties as your English teacher if I didn’t correct you,” the blonde says, setting up his coffee machine. There was a better one in the staff room, but he didn’t like many of those people. If Mr. Wilkins wanted to see him, he knew to come to the younger teacher’s room. After a moment, Anthony asks, “do you ever worry about your sisters?”

“Nah,” Jeremy says, flopping down into a seat. Since it’s so early, he feels comfortable slinging one leg over the small table space. His jeans are baggy, his hair a tangled mess, but he’s smiling, so the question was alright. ”Mom would never hurt them,” he says, “she has some outdated ideas about what and who is tough, but if that means my sisters are safe, I’m OK with it.” He seems to count out twelve heartbeats with his fingers on his thigh before he adds, “for now.”

“Want some cookies?” Anthony asks, splaying a hand toward them. “I have more in my bag, so feel free.”

“I am hungry, but those are empty calories,” Jeremy says, shrugging, but he looks anything but casual. His shoulders are hunched, his jaw tight. He takes his leg down from the desk.

“Here,” the older man offers, rolling his seat over to the mini fridge, taking out his lunch. It’s a grilled chicken salad, and Jeremy stares at it when it is placed in front of him.

“Man, I can’t take your food.”

Anthony shrugs, starts sorting out the day’s paperwork – half sheets for daily writing assignments, quizzes to return, full page, blue sheets that explain the last big assignment of the year. “I can always go out somewhere for lunch. I don’t have a homeroom, so,” he says, letting the words hang in the air. When the older man ignores him in favor of his work, Jeremy opens the Tupperware and picks at the salad as quietly as possible.

At lunch, a handful of students are surprised to find Mr. Wright’s door locked, but Jeremy is waiting by his car. He has an unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear and a sheepish grin on his face.

“Skipping homeroom?” Anthony asks, letting the boy in anyway.

“Yeah. Nothing for me there, anyway. Mind if I tag along?”

“I guess not. I’m just going to McDonalds.”

“Artery clogging goodness,” Jeremy teases, lighting his cigarette as they pull out of the school parking lot.

“They have salads,” Anthony grouses under his breath. Jeremy laughs.

“Haven’t you ever heard that going to McDonalds for a salad is like-”

“-Going to a hooker for a hug. Yeah, yeah.”

He packs an extra lunch for Jeremy for the rest of the week.

Thursday night, Duane is at the clinic again, and Anthony hopes this guy becomes a regular. Not particularly because he hopes the other gets beyond whatever ails him, though that is part of it, but because he really likes looking at him out of the corner of his eye. From what he’s seen, it doesn’t seem like Duane should be there. He’s unashamed of his scars, and proud of his service.

But Anthony knows that looks can be deceiving.

He’s seen Duane’s smile falter when people ask him about his shoulder, and the man tells a different story every time. Sometimes his bright pink lips set into such a thin line that the splash of color lighting up his face doesn’t show. Anthony suspects that might be when he gets just a little too close to telling the truth. But the bright pink and perfect white always return quickly, and it’s obvious to any observant individual that his expressions are practiced.

Joel comes in with his wife at his side, and he’s been there every day that week. Apparently nightfall makes him nervous, and he laughs about it, the woman pulling a pained smile. He stands at the desk while his wife gets a cup of coffee, talking to Anthony about the Reds and their chances of making the playoffs that year.

When Henry comes in, Anthony is briefly worried, but the feeling doesn’t show on his face. He thinks about letting Chelsea cut his hair instead and makes a face at the thought of himself with a pixie cut.

Henry is surprisingly kind to Joel’s wife, whose name he finds out is Alexis, helping her to a seat when she starts crying because she dropped her coffee. Both Henry and Joel offer to clean up the mess, but Anthony jumps up, glad for the distraction from low key appreciating Duane’s figure while he waits quietly in the corner.

Joel leans over the counter and presses his forehead to it, muttering apologies.

Dr. Mitchell comes out from behind the heavy wooden door, looking flustered, her hair falling out of its usually neat bun. She pushes it back before calling out to Joel softly. She shifts nervously, looking for all the world like she wants to fuss with her pressed, pleated slacks.

“I can’t imagine what she goes through,” Anthony hears to his left. When he looks up from scrubbing the wooden floor with a Windex-soaked paper towel, he sees Duane in his vacated seat. The man is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his fingertips pressed together near his mouth. For a hot little moment, he thinks about crawling between the other’s legs. He swallows thickly and shakes his head.

“Me either,” he says, glaring at the wood grain.

Henry and Alexis are talking quietly in the seats closest to the wooden door, and the door has a soft bell that plays from his computer as not to startle the vets and their families, so Anthony figures he can afford to engage in some conversation.

“She your doctor?”

“Yeah,” Duane answers, sitting back. He crosses one ankle over his knee and lets his arms rest limply on the chair’s arms. “Thinking about asking for a different one, though. Nothing against her, but she’s got enough on her plate.” There’s a moment of silence in which Anthony doesn’t know what to say, and Duane seems to read that from him and continues, “besides, my issues aren’t as bad as most of her clients, it looks like.”

“You could try Dr. Rivera,” Anthony suggests, tossing the used paper towel in the waste bin by the table with the coffee pot.

Duane makes a face, his lips twisted in concentration. “Doesn’t he deal more with families and kids of vets rather than actual vets?” he asks.

“That’s what I’ve gathered, yeah,” the blonde answers, making himself a cup of coffee. “Want a cup?”

“Yeah, sure,” Duane answers, sounding a bit surprised.

“How do you take it?”

“I like it creamy and sweet,” he says, grinning broadly. Anthony scoffs and makes the cup, almost spilling it when Henry looks up from his conversation with Alexis to damn near shout,

“That’s what she said!”

A comment like that from a man like Henry makes the other three in the room burst out in laughter. Duane curses when Anthony hands him his coffee and starts to stand.

“Man, I’m in your seat. Sorry.”

“You’re alright,” Anthony says, putting his hand on Duane’s scarred shoulder to push him back into the marginally more comfortable seat. Duane studies Anthony’s face with an intensely scrutinizing stare for a long moment before it relaxes into an easy grin.

“Thanks, man.”

Anthony wonders if Duane was flirting with him as he finishes out the rest of his time there that evening. The other leaves quickly when his appointment is over, not stopping to schedule another one, so he assumes the answer is no.

When he gets home, Alex is on the couch, playing with his hair with one hand, playing some video game with the other. The controller sits in his lap and Anthony finds himself jealous of it, wanting to take its place. The older man has his fingers splayed across the device so he can use both swivel pads, pressing buttons with his smallest finger. Instead of trying to get his boyfriend to stop his game, Anthony shrugs out of his cardigan and shoes and sits on the couch next to him. He rests his head on Alex’s shoulder, and the happy little noise that bubbles up in the taller man’s throat is worth the uncomfortable position. He falls asleep watching the colorful robots on the screen.


	4. Chapter 4

Monday morning finds Jeremy with a healing split lip, crunching on a Speedway cup of ice cubes while waiting in Mr. Wright’s room. The janitor left the door open when the boy wandered in, and since Anthony doesn’t use the school computer for grading until a few days before they’re due, the older man lets the kid stay. He always cleans Mr. Wright’s classroom last for a chance of running into the man, finding him more bearable than the other teachers who frequently complain about the way he cleans. The blonde always has snacks, too, so that’s a plus.

“Oh, hello Ron, Jeremy,” and both of the rooms other occupants snicker at the combination of their names. Fruit salad with marshmallows, cups and sporks are laid out, and Anthony puts on coffee while Ron runs a nearly silent vacuum over the carpet. Jeremy lifts his legs when Ron reaches his area and gets a quiet thanks.

Ronald Andrews sticks around for a cup of coffee and a cup of fruit salad, but doesn’t really bother with small talk. He doesn’t know if he should with the boy around. He enjoys the fact that Anthony doesn’t put on an affronted look when he curses in conversation, but isn’t sure he should do that with the youth around. Things have changed since he was a teacher. He chooses his words carefully when he says that his last year of teaching was ninety-five, and that he’s surprised it took him a little over ten years to get bored with retirement. Jeremy looks at him then.

“I like school,” he offers, picking melon and grapes out of his own cup of fruit salad. “A lot of kids say they don’t want to be here, and I might not be all that great at it, but if school was cancelled forever, I’d be bored after a week.” Anthony smiles at that, knowing the feeling all too well. The blonde also knows that ‘bored’ is a cover word for the phrase ‘hating life.’

Ron leaves the door open when he vacates the room, knowing by now not to close it after Mr. Wright is in. With the elderly man gone, though, Anthony can really look at Jeremy. He noticed the split lip as soon as he walked in, but the butterfly bandage sticking out of the neck of the boy’s sweater is a little troubling.

“I fell,” Jeremy says, his hand coming up to cover it.

“I wasn’t asking,” Anthony says back, no inflection to his words.

“Thanks.”

At lunch, there are three students in his room; Jeremy, and two girls who are practically attached at the hip. One is short, chubby and sporty, and reminds him a little too much of himself at that age, and the other is taller, though not by much, with a thick middle and teal hair. She’d dyed it as soon as the school repealed their ban on ‘unnatural’ hair colors. When a young lady from one of his later classes comes in, a friend in tow whose face is puffy and swollen from crying, the two girls in the back pack up the comics they were passing back and forth and vacate the room.

“Lyndsay,” he says, not addressing the friend because she doesn’t look like she wants to be addressed.

“Hey, Mr. Wright,” she says and tucks her hair behind her ear. It’s long and straight and blonde with a mesmerizing copper sheen that Anthony is a little jealous of, if he’s honest with himself. “Can we talk alone?” she asks, and he knows she doesn’t mean to sound rude to Jeremy, but looks over her shoulder nervously anyway.

“Sure,” he says, taking his wallet from his back pocket. He pulls out a ten and calls out to Jeremy. “Can you go get some cheese sticks? You can get yourself something while you’re at it.”

“Sure,” the brunette says, jumping up and snatching the bill. Once he’s out the door, Anthony rolls his chair over to the door and pushes it three quarters of the way closed.

“Sorry, I can’t close it all the way without a female staff member in here with me. What’s up?” he asks, pushing himself back to his desk with his feet.

“This is Amanda,” Lyndsay says, stepping out of the way of her friend. The girl is trim and sporty with a short haircut. She has a hoodie on over basketball shorts and her sneakers have dried mud on them. She doesn’t look like the kind of girl that Lyndsay would be friends with, but he’s seen stranger friendships. “She has a problem and she didn’t want to go to a counselor, so I thought I’d bring her to you.”

“Sure,” he says, folding his hands on the desk. “How can I help?”

Lyndsay nudges the other, but she doesn’t seem to want to say anything. She looks on the verge of tears. “He won’t judge you, I promise.”

“I-” Amanda starts, but closes her mouth and shakes her head.

“Wanna sit?” Anthony offers, and Lyndsay hooks her high heeled shoe under one of the rungs of the nearest student desk and pulls it closer to them. Amanda sits in the chair and Lyndsay perches herself on the side of the desk. After a couple minutes, the short haired girl gathers herself enough to speak.

“My parents recently found out I’m a lesbian, and they keep trying to set me up with boys from church,” she says, maybe a little quickly. She wants to get it out, and both Anthony and Lyndsay understand that feeling.

“I see,” Anthony says, bringing one hand up to rub at the stubble on his chin. “Have you tried anything to get them to stop? Do you mind if I ask how they found out?”

“I got caught kissing another girl at church camp over spring break,” she admitted, smiling fondly at the memory of the girl. It turned bitter when she thought about being caught. “I told them I’m gay, but that didn’t seem to stop them.”

Anthony thinks for a moment, then says, “sometimes adults are more stubborn than children. They think they know what’s right and get set in their ways. But, unfortunately we all have to deal with it until we turn eighteen.” He sighs quietly. He moves to scratch his cheek by his nose, but stops halfway there when an idea strikes him. “Have you tried having fun with it?”

“What?” Amanda asks, and both girls look confused.

“Go on the dates. Be obnoxious. Burp and pass gas in public, punch the boys in the arm and emasculate them. Laugh at their reactions? Scare them off? You’ll get a free dinner and a show,” he suggests with a loose shrug. A smile spreads over Lyndsay’s face when Amanda starts laughing. “Do your parents chaperone?”

“No, they don’t. So I can actually do that,” she answers, picking at her shorts and chuckling.

They discuss the best ways to irritate teenage boys until Jeremy returns with an order of cheese sticks and a plate full of shredded lettuce and green beans for himself. The girls thank him before leaving.

“The youth of Ohio are lucky to have you,” Jeremy says while Anthony smiles and texts Alex.

The rest of the week is fairly uneventful, save for the fact that Chelsea and Alex actually go out to the movies on Wednesday. The older man excitedly tells Anthony about holding Chelsea’s hand in the theatre while they picked apart the cheesy flick when he gets home from the VA clinic that night.

Duane tells Anthony about his improvements in the gym with a devilish smile on his face that Thursday, and Anthony listens, watches his face. He likes having an excuse to look at Duane, and he’s pretty sure the other man knows. Henry calls them ‘a couple of fags,’ but there’s no real venom behind it, and Duane turns only to stick his tongue out at Henry.

Saturday, Anthony takes Alex with him when he goes to meet Jeremy at the McDonalds near the school. They pour over the teenager’s homework while Alex tries to work up the courage to flirt with the cute cashier with the red stripe in her hair. He doesn’t, instead ordering cookies to drown his sorrows in.

Anthony and Jeremy slip outside for a cigarette and smoke on the hood of his Saturn. The older man is well aware that he looks much younger in casual clothes. In jeans, a t-shirt and plaid over shirt, he looks college aged. If he would have shaved that morning, he thinks as he runs his fingers over the stubble on his jaw, he could have passed for a friend of Jeremy’s. He corrects himself with a minute shake of his head; he is Jeremy’s friend, just not a socially acceptable one.

He almost doesn’t want to let Jeremy go when he drops him off down the street from his house, but he knows sending the youngster back to that hellhole is an inevitability no matter what course of action he takes. Telling someone would make things worse for the boy, even if only briefly. He grumbles when Jeremy cuffs him upside the head and makes a playful biting gesture at the brunette’s hand.

Alex makes dinner, overstuffed burritos, quietly. He’s lost in his head after his failure to flirt with the chick at McDonalds, but at least he laughs when Anthony tells him that the girl was probably underage, anyway.

Chelsea comes in the door without even knocking, and neither of them are really bothered by it at this point. She has one finger curled in a six pack of some expensive beer while the other hand grabs one of the burritos Alex prepared for her, since they half expected her to show up. She makes appreciative sounds while she eats, finishing a whole burrito before she cracks into one of her beers.

Her last name is Akhmetov, but she doesn’t answer to that. On Facebook her name is Chelsea Dragonov and she has a picture of the very same rifle as the banner behind her grinning face caked with white and black makeup, eyeliner smeared as always. Anthony never really wanted a Facebook page, but she’d managed to talk him into getting one.

She was the first member of her family born in America, her parents Kazakhstani. Her father had played hockey in Kazakhstan before marrying her mother, a physical therapist, then they retired to America to have four children. The rest of the family were loosely Muslim, but hardly observed any Islamic traditions. Her mother donned a scarf for family reunions, and Chelsea was the only one who ate pork, but beyond that people were often surprised to find that the Akhmetov family weren’t Christian. Her mother sometimes joked that they may as well be.

Life with her family wasn’t particularly stressful, though her parents did often badger her about finding a nice boy to settle down with. They hounded her quite frequently after she burned herself out trying to get a degree in psychology. At the moment she was in the middle of taking a year off, and her parents tried to bargain with her, telling her they wouldn’t be disappointed with her bringing home an Atheist boy, or even a girl. As long as she had someone, they’d said. But she wasn’t the settling type, and no matter how many times she told them, they refused to believe it.

She thinks, sometimes, that might be the reason why she likes hanging out with Alex and Anthony so much. It’s domestic, yet it’s not. The two have an open relationship, and Anthony really doesn’t mind her doing romantic things with his boyfriend. In fact, it seems to make him happy, which struck her as weird at first, but she loves it now. She adores being able to hug and cuddle with Alex without any obligations toward sex or commitment, though they do often schedule their dates as per Anthony’s request. It also helps that Alex and Anthony have the same appreciation for antique rifles that she does, and are quite fond of the same first person shooter games that she is.

When she realizes she doesn’t know if Alex considers their outings dates or not, in the middle of her second burrito and a tale about how Alex was attacked by a box full of stuffed pandas at work, she decides to ask Anthony later, when she bums a cigarette.


	5. Chapter 5

There’s something disturbing about the way the other Torres brother’s right eye – the one his brother is missing –starts to glaze over as the days go by. It’s almost like his body is trying to keep them looking identical, keep the way they view the world the same. Anthony wonders if stress, maybe survivor’s guilt, can cause cataracts, but he doesn’t say anything. He acts like nothing’s different when the seemingly uninjured twin comes in with an eyepatch on, doesn’t seem to outwardly notice how it’s held on with clear medical tape. He suspects he gouged it out himself in a fit of anguish. It wouldn’t be the strangest self-inflicted injury he’s seen come through those doors.

Duane is at the clinic, every Thursday like clockwork, half an hour early so they can talk. He comes to rely on Anthony for up to the minute reports on what’s happening in the sports world. They talk pretty easily, at least in the view of others. They were both aware of the walls they put up between them, but neither thought the small waiting room in the clinic was the appropriate place to discuss them, if at all. The more flirtatious they become, the thicker the walls get. A chain link fence becomes a wooden fence becomes steel guardrails becomes concrete three feet thick. Duane can be downright cheeky sometimes, but he gets quiet when they’re alone. The air grows thin until all that’s left between them is a fog that drifts away like cigarette smoke one Thursday evening when there’s only two weeks left in the school year.

“So, uh, I know you probably can’t see patients outside of work and all, but I thought I’d give it a shot,” Duane starts, leaving the words hang like he expects Anthony to shut him down before he can even finish. He picks at the edge of the scarring on his forearm nervously, not looking at Anthony.

Anthony can’t tell if the other man wants to be turned down or not, so he says lowly, “since I’m a volunteer secretary and not a licensed practitioner, I can do whatever I want.”

“Well, in that case,” Duane starts, looking up, “do you wanna get coffee sometime?” Anthony’s heart skips a beat, then he frowns. Duane’s gorgeous shoulders tense and he plasters on a fake smile. “Yeah, sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. I suppose you wouldn’t even want to be friends with a wreck like me, huh?”

Red hot, searing anger worms its way up Anthony’s spine, and it’s the most intense emotion he’s felt since the last time Alex took his face in his hands several weeks ago. He’s not angry at Duane, or anyone in particular, and he takes a deep breath. When the dark skinned man starts to mutter an apology, Anthony holds up his hand. He imagines his face must be red, and feels that the other deserves an explanation.

The lobby is empty, save for them, so he starts, “I’d like to, but there are some things you should know first.” Duane looks floored, mutters a

“Sure, man,” before nodding for the blonde to continue.

“I’m already in a relationship,” he says, and continues before Duane’s somewhat restored confidence can deflate, “but it’s an open, polyamorous relationship. That just,” he stops to shrug, “kills it for most people.”

“Nah, that’s,” and Duane leans on the counter, visibly relieved, “that’s probably a good thing,” and that’s the first time Anthony has ever heard something like that. He blinks a few times and Duane laughs at the confused expression on the other’s boyish face. “I’m not exactly relationship material. Not yet, anyway.” He turns to make himself a cup of coffee, because looking at the smaller man is getting awkward. Duane has already had his appointment, so he’s a bit wrung out. His hands shake a little when he pours himself a cup. “It would be better if, well, if you had someone else to go to when- because I can’t always be around.”

This new, shy Duane is charming, Anthony thinks. It’s real and raw, like his scars look.

“There are other things we will need to discuss, but I am up for coffee,” Anthony says. Duane turns and smiles, and it’s not all false bravado, but it’s just as brilliant.

“So, Starbucks on Brown street this Saturday at two?”

Alex is excited to hear about this development when Anthony gets home. He immediately starts texting Chelsea, and they plan a date of their own, so that Alex won’t be sitting around, playing with his hair while his lover is gone.

Jeremy is suspicious of how happy Anthony seems to be when they meet on Saturday morning to go over his dwindling end of the year homework, but his teacher waves him off. He takes the youth home just a little early, the gangly mop side-eyeing him all the while.

“You have a date,” the boy suddenly realizes, putting the pieces together. Tight jeans, hair gelled. He’s about to get out of the car, hand on the handle, but he stops. A dismissive sound is all he gets from his favorite teacher, so he demands that the other, “tell me about him.”

“You assume it’s a man,” Anthony says, mock-offended.

“Yeah, dude, you’re gay as hell,” Jeremy says, giving the other an unimpressed look. “I thought you had a boyfriend?” Anthony blushes. He isn’t sure how to explain this to a student.

“It’s- We’re-”

“Doing the open thing? It’s cool, man, it’s cool,” Jeremy eases. Anthony lets out a sigh of relief.

“I’m glad you approve. Now get out of my car,” he says, but he isn’t angry.

“Mr. Wright found Mr. Right,” Jeremy teases, jumping out and shutting the door. Anthony throws a burger wrapper at the boy through the open window, and he ducks out of the way, laughing. Jeremy waves before he starts walking in the direction of his place.

The little standalone building that is the Starbucks is crowded when Anthony gets there. He’s not entirely surprised to find a parking space in the back, because he knows most of the people there are University of Dayton students who walked from the campus not far away. There are only two cars other than his parked in the crumbling lot, and he wonders if one of them is Duane’s. He looks through the windows, deciding to smoke a cigarette to kill time. He’s ten minutes early as he’d figured there would be a chance he’d have to park further away. Duane isn’t inside, from what he can see, so he walks around to the front of the building.

“Oh, hey,” he hears, and turns to see Duane standing from where he’d been sitting on his haunches against the building. Anthony smiles at the sound of the other’s voice and stubs his cigarette out on the side of the building. Duane is wearing a thin zip-up hoodie even though it’s in the high sixties or lower seventies, and he has orange aviators perched on his head where he lifted them as he addressed Anthony.   
“Afternoon,” Anthony says, splaying his hand toward the front door to the shop. Duane nods and takes the three strides to the door, holding it open for Anthony, who chuckles and winks as he walks through it. Duane’s skin is dark enough that a blush wouldn’t be noticeable unless someone was really looking, but the blonde can feel the embarrassed heat radiating off of him.

Anthony has always hated the never ending lines at Starbucks for overpriced coffee, but they have canned refreshers, and a good portion of the proceeds go to charity anyway, so he doesn’t complain. Duane stands a little bit closer than a friend would, his front a hair’s breadth from the shorter man’s back, but it’s crowded so it doesn’t raise any suspicion. He’s breathing heavily on Anthony’s right ear by the time they’re next in line.

The blonde orders a lime refresher in a store cup because those don’t come canned, or because there are none in the case from what he can see. Duane orders a tall triple-triple and they have a short argument over who should pay. The cashier is amused, and takes Anthony’s money when he’s the first to hold out a bill, even snickers at Duane’s curse when the man stuffs his wallet back in his back pocket.

The two look for a seat, finding none. But that’s fine, in Anthony’s opinion, because Duane looks nervous. He thinks the other probably isn’t capable of sitting at the moment, so they head out the side door to the rear of the building and walk around back.

“I need a minute, sorry,” Duane says.

“Sure,” Anthony says, holding out his hand for the other’s coffee. After staring at the casually extended hand for almost a minute, it clicks into place what Anthony is offering so Duane hands him his drink. The blonde sets both of their drinks on the heavy plastic lid of the dumpster, having to reach up a bit to do so, and Duane braces himself on the side of it. The taller man lets his forehead rest against the plastic, flinching when his glasses slide down the back of his head. He fumbles for them when they start to fall, but Anthony catches them after they bounce off of Duane’s arm. “I got ‘em,” he says, folds them and sets the shades by their drinks.

“Thanks,” Duane says, a strained smile showing his teeth. “And sorry,” he adds, smile fading, “I’m a little claustrophobic these days.”

“Don’t apologize when you’ve done nothing wrong,” Anthony says around the filter of a cigarette. Duane laughs and closes his eyes, one set of fingers tightening on plastic, the other on the side of the dumpster, on painted metal. The taller man is glad the other’s cigarette is a menthol, a minty smell woven into the acrid scent of burning chemicals.

“Hey, uh, could I bum one of those?”

Antony looks a bit surprised, but takes the pack from the pocket of his plaid over-shirt. “Wouldn’t expect you to smoke,” he says, flipping open the lid with his thumb.

“I don’t, usually, but I need something to do with my hands,” Duane admits, fingers trembling slightly when he pries a cigarette from the pack. Anthony hands him the lighter after he puts the filter to his lips. “Thanks,” he mutters, and Anthony makes a noise of acknowledgement somewhere in his throat. After a few moments of silence, Duane laughs bitterly, weakly. “I messed this all up, huh? Here I thought I could be all suave and shit.”

“I’d rather you be yourself and not some rakish buffoon, but whatever makes you comfortable,” Anthony drawls, smoke leaking from the corners of his mouth. Duane lets out a contented little sigh, turning around to lean his back against the dumpster.

“Thanks,” the man says, free hand in his jacket pocket, fingers twisting in the fabric. Anthony recognizes this nervous habit. He sees it all the time in Alex, in Jeremy, in himself on occasion. “I’ll make it up to you next time.”

“No big deal,” Anthony says, reaching up for his drink. He takes a sip before he speaks again, “you haven’t done anything wrong. I’d rather be out here, anyway.”

“Yeah?” Duane asks. Anthony hums an affirmative.

“I don’t like crowds, either. Different reason, I’m sure, but it’s a nice day out and I can smoke out here.”

It doesn’t take long from there for Duane to calm down, and once he does, he hauls himself up on the dumpster. He laughs at Anthony trying to climb up, and offers him a hand after a moment. The two sit with their thighs pressed together and tell each other about their day to day lives. Duane smiles when Anthony talks about his students, is tempted to lean his head on the other’s shoulder, but doesn’t. The veteran is hesitant to talk about his day job, so Anthony shrugs and asks when the last time Duane attended a live sporting event was.

Duane asks for a hug just before they’re about to part, hands in his pockets, looking off at the back of another nearby building. Anthony happily steps into the taller man’s personal space and offers up his arms, palms up. Duane’s grateful embrace is both heartwarming and heartbreaking.

When Anthony gets home, Alex’s hair is black with frosty blue tips, and Chelsea is braiding it. He gives the other a look that says ‘help me,’ and Anthony can’t help but laugh. He sits on the floor in front of Alex, right there in the kitchen and takes his hands. Chelsea says something that sounds suspiciously like ‘maybe you’ll finally sit still.’


	6. Chapter 6

Late Sunday morning, Chelsea slams the door behind her and bangs her head against it a few times. Anthony peeks his head out from the kitchen and raises a brow. “Eggs?” he asks, and Chelsea laughs. She likes that Anthony can always draw a laugh out of her, even if he doesn’t intend to.

“What’s wrong?” Alex asks when she’s halfway through a plate of eggs with pepper and ketchup. She sets the plate down and carefully places her fork on the edge.

“My brother thinks I’m a lesbian, my sister thinks I’m a slut, and my parents think I’m ace and aro,” she says all in one breath.

“And?” Anthony asks, putting sausage on her plate. She grabs a piece immediately and shoves it in her mouth, pouting up at the older man. “Does it matter?” he asks, sitting down to resume eating his own food.

“I guess not. It’s just annoying,” Chelsea admits, “and it’s too early to drink it away.” The kitchen is quiet for a moment with that admission out there. “Wanna play ERS?” she asks, then hides her face with her plate as she shovels food in her mouth.

They play cards for over an hour, then choose to rewatch movies. They decide on the first two Captain America movies, even though Chelsea and Alex had watched them only a few weeks prior. They are greatly amused by Anthony’s pining over Cap’s companions. They make way too many muffins that evening.

She spends the night, so Anthony takes the guest bed after kissing Alex to silence his concerns and rolling his eyes at Chelsea’s. After a long moment of contemplative silence, he leans over and kisses her cheek, leaving her sputtering.

Monday morning brings with it a warm rain, but Anthony can’t enjoy it for very long because he has an expensive smartphone in his pocket. He cracks the window of his car just enough to let the smoke out when he lights a cigarette and heads off to work fifteen minutes early, knowing his clothes will need some time to dry and look presentable before his students come in. A little under a mile from the school, he spots a familiar figure, drenched by the rain. He pulls up next to Jeremy and reaches over to roll down the passenger side window. “Hey,” he says, just loud enough for the other to hear.

In the next second, Jeremy is flopping down in the seat and rolling up the window.

Anthony is about to ask if the boy needs a towel when Jeremy pushes his hood down and says, “don’t make me start singing Sting and the Police here.” Anthony scoffs, maybe just a little surprised that the teen makes that reference. He’d only heard of that song himself because a local band had covered it when he was in college.

“Just don’t sit on my lap and we’re fine, dolly,” the blonde teases back, and it’s Jeremy’s turn to scoff.

Anthony brought in many of the too many muffins he and the others made the previous night. He lays them out for his students, and turns to offer a pumpkin oatmeal muffin to Jeremy, his “only two-hundred calories in this one,” coming out weak as he sees Jeremy without something long sleeved on for the first time.

The boy isn’t too thin, he’s likely a healthy weight, but his height makes him look lanky and awkward. His arms, Anthony can’t help but notice, are covered in scars. Most of them look self-inflicted, but there’s a noticeable pattern of finger shaped bruises around his left wrist. Jeremy raises his head to make eye contact with Anthony as he takes the muffin with a small, “thanks,” and maintains the eye contact, as if daring Anthony to say something.

When the older man is the first to break the staring match, Jeremy sits at a desk, the one in front of the one he laid his hoodie out on to dry. He picks at his muffin while Anthony unlocks one of the locked drawers on his desk. He digs around in it and finally comes up with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a few cotton balls. He walks the objects over to sit them on the desk in front of Jeremy and gives him a pointed look.

Jeremy finishes his muffin and cleans his cuts, throwing away the cotton balls and muffin wrapper at the same time. He puts the cleaning agent on Anthony’s desk without saying anything, and returns to his sweater, smoothing it out before putting it back on.

“If you want to talk,” Anthony says, sorting the half sheets of daily writing assignments by class, “you know where to find me.”

The clinic is quiet that night, almost peaceful. Probably would be if Anthony could stop looking around at the décor, picking out things that he knows would upset certain regulars if they could come up for a breath from their problems. Maybe, he thinks, it’s a good thing that their suffering gives them a single-minded focus on whatever particular problem ails them that night, or else they’d spiral right into different fits. He’d suggested once, to Joel and Alexis, that they volunteer at a soup kitchen. He knew his style of coping wasn’t for everyone, but nothing made Anthony feel better about himself than helping someone else. It even eased the ache of the bruises.

He remembered, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded, chewing on a pen, himself at fifteen. It was two weeks after Halloween, and his mother hadn’t let him eat much of his candy. He’d managed to steal a bit of it out of the cabinet she’d been keeping it in, rationing it out of, and put it in a paper sandwich bag. He was a bit surprised that they had the things, but digging around in the cupboards proved useful every once in a while. On the bus to school, little Toni, very much bright eyed and bushy tailed despite his black eye, had climbed into the seat with a formerly popular boy. The boy’s so-called friends had been avoiding him, side-eyeing him at lunch since he’d been back at school, the hospital band on his wrist clearly chewed on. He’d been made fun of by this child before, but,

“No one should miss Trick-or-Treat,” he’d said, holding the bag of pilfered candy out to the other, offering him a gap-toothed smile.

But that had been before the world had beaten those wide smiles out of him. A hazy snow globe of a relic of the days where he’d worn his heart on his sleeve.

But he still gives a small smile at the memory.

The long week drags on, but he puts on a calm face for the children and doesn’t bother Alex or Chelsea with any of the happy memories that bubble up out of nowhere. They seem out of place.

Thursday he and Duane actually exchange numbers because they’d forgotten to on their sort-of-date. Dr. Mitchell gives him a sideways look, but he ignores it. He goes home to Alex and plays with his blue-tipped curls for several minutes before sucking him off. He gets mildly irritated when Alex starts talking about Chelsea no more than two minutes after they finish such an intimate activity, but he knows the other doesn’t mean anything by it, so he doesn’t react. He simply listens to Alex tell him about Chelsea’s plan for a pizza party next weekend.

Saturday Jeremy shows up at McDonalds with a fresh batch of scars peeking out from under the sleeve of his hoodie when he reaches for something. More butterfly bandages peek out, the cut on his shoulder having clearly reopened and hastily patched up.

“You fell on something made of glass, didn’t you?” he asks when Jeremy has a mouthful of grilled chicken salad that Anthony insisted he eat. He timed his phrase that way so the other had a moment to think about his response, and wouldn’t immediately make something up.

“Yeah,” Jeremy answers after a moment. He stabs a cherry tomato with his plastic fork just a little too hard.

“Would you mind if I took a look at it? If it reopened, there’s a chance it can get infected.”

“Here?” the teen asks around the fork, speech slurred on the tomato. Anthony shrugs.

“We could go to the bathroom, but I don’t have a first aid kit here.”

“I’m surprised you don’t keep one in your car, you fuckin’ Boy Scout,” Jeremy teases, but there’s a bit of bitterness behind it.

“Just bandages, chemical ice packs and one of those crinkly blanket things,” the blonde says, throwing one of his fries in the boy’s salad. Jeremy makes an offended sound, but spears it with a forkful of lettuce and eats it anyway.

“You could take me back to your place,” he says, again with the intentionally holding eye contact as if daring the older man to say something. He raises a brow, and only then does Anthony realize there’s an old, small scar there, preventing a small patch of the hair from growing.

“Jeremy,” Anthony says, his tone clearly uneasy.

“We both know it’s not like that, so what’s the problem?” The boy is so defiant. It makes Anthony’s chest ache.

“What would your parents say? Or do, for that matter?” Anthony nearly hisses, his voice barely audible. It’s Jeremy’s turn to shrug.

“Mom kicked me out for the weekend last night. Nearly punched dad when he gave me the money for a hotel room.” He turns his attention back to his salad when Anthony turns away.

“Jesus,” Anthony mutters. “Fine.”

Luckily, Alex is happy to have another guest to cook for, and Chelsea falls in love with Jeremy’s hair on the spot. He whines and swats at her halfheartedly when she tries to play with it. Anthony cleans and rebandages the wound, finding that it goes further down Jeremy’s back than he could reach himself. “Jesus,” he mutters again, even though he’s not a particularly religious person, and Jeremy laughs.

Anthony wonders just how long Jeremy has been dressing wounds like this on his own and his gut clenches, roils, rolls. He thinks he might vomit, but keeps it down. Helps the boy back into his shirt and shows him to the kitchen where Alex and Chelsea are behaving irresponsibly with the deep fryer.

They have deep fried everything for dinner, and Anthony is surprised at how Jeremy packs away the batter drenched green beans.

Jeremy takes the guest bed, and Chelsea and Alex curl up in the master bedroom. Anthony stays awake for a while to step outside, chain smoke and nervously scratch his face. He considers texting Duane, but he doesn’t.


	7. Chapter 7

Letting Jeremy go back to his family Sunday night is a nearly physically painful experience for Anthony, and Alex by proxy, who is growing attached to the kid. But, he turns up happy as can be on Monday, so the blonde feels a little foolish for losing sleep over it.

At lunch, Jeremy, Dimitri, Lyndsay, Amanda, and the comic book girls are in his classroom. It feels almost Breakfast Club-y, but not, and Anthony chuckles under his breath at that. He texts Alex and, figuring four days is long enough to wait after getting someone’s number to text them, he texts Duane. He gets a text back almost immediately and might look like a happy teenager, but is too excited to care.

“So, who is the lucky guy?” Lyndsay asks, crossing her legs. She pops gum and smirks devilishly while Mr. Wright stares at her with a deer in the headlights look.

“You assume it’s a guy,” Anthony says and Jeremy scoffs.

“Gay recognizes gay, and I know just who the fuck you are,” Amanda says, then blushes at her choice of words and adds, “uh, sir.”

Anthony laughs, says, “Oh, was that the lunch bell I heard? Looks like it’s time for you all to head back to class.”

“But we’ve got five minutes left!” Dimitri whines and everyone chuckles.

“Take me home with you,” Jeremy says after Anthony emerges from the shower that afternoon, taking advantage of the gym like he does every so often. He’s fully dressed before he steps out of the little stall built for a teen, and Jeremy finds that only a little weird.

“Can’t,” Anthony says apologetically, toweling off his hair. “I have other obligations, unless this is an emergency.” He looks at the youth out of the corner of his eye.

“No, I just don’t want to go home. That, and Wednesday is the last day before summer break. We won’t really get a chance to hang out for a while,” and he sounds small, defeated.

“I-” Anthony starts, turns to look at Jeremy while folding his towel, “if you can get your father’s permission, you can come over any time you want.” Jeremy’s smile lights up the dimly lit locker room, and Anthony can’t help but teasingly call him a brat. He drops Jeremy off a block from his house, as has become their ritual.

While sitting around the mostly empty clinic, Anthony texts Duane to ask him if he wants to do something Friday morning. He says yes, or rather ‘hell yeah,’ and they discuss where they should go.

When Mary comes out of her regular Monday meeting with her shrink, she makes a bee-line for Anthony, and he’s more than a little startled by the almost malicious grin on her handsome face. She leans over the counter, looking like she’s going to tell him a dirty secret and says,

“I heard you went on a date with Duane.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” he says in a way that translates to ‘yes, yes I did.’ She rears back and her grin broadens.

“What’s he like?” she asks. “Did you guys fuck?”

“That was an awfully personal question,” Anthony says, both brows raised.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“It’s too bad you’re only into men. I bet you’re the sweet, attentive type.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Anthony says, one corner of his mouth quirking.

“I bet,” she says, mouth still stretched in an impossibly wide grin. She’s no less forward or abrasive, but her meetings have helped her get her anger under control. “I need an appointment for the same time next Monday,” and that’s the end of that.

Jeremy gets his father’s permission to spend the night Wednesday night, and Anthony calls the man just to be sure. After that’s out of the way, the group – including Chelsea – eat the rest of the cake Anthony took to school for the kids to celebrate their last day that year. Chelsea’s badgering even gets Jeremy to nibble on a few bites of chocolatey goodness. She also puts several braids in the teen’s hair despite his complaining about her making it even curlier. They play ERS, Chelsea winning most plays even with a bottle of wine in one hand.

Thursday night, Duane waits around after his appointment just to talk to Anthony all the way up until the clinic closes at nine. He cleans the coffee pot while the blonde vacuums. He walks Anthony to his car and stands there awkwardly for a moment before he says,

“Hey, uh, can I have another hug? I wanted to ask earlier, but there were people around, so,” he trails off, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Anytime,” Anthony says, turning his palms up again. Duane is grateful for that little gesture, unsure of whether or not Anthony knows just how much it means to him. He steps in close and backs the shorter man up against the driver’s side door of his car, wrapping his thick arms around his shoulders.

When he says, “I’m always a little wrung-out after those, so the affection is nice,” it’s into Anthony’s hair. It tickles his lips when he speaks, so he presses harder into it, small hands a welcome comfort on his shoulder blades.

Anthony doesn’t want to ruin the moment, but he knows he’s going to have to. He’d rather it happen sooner, just in case, he tells himself, so that there isn’t too much pain on either of their parts if it turns out Duane is no longer interested. He leans back against the car door, bringing his hands around to grip the bigger man’s biceps and he shivers a little at the power he can feel thrumming under that gorgeous dark skin, under those scars that look like a painting. His hair is cut short, and the pattern of his stubble suggests that his usual facial hair style is a chin strap. His chin is a bit soft, a long, slender curve, but he’s no less masculine for it. When Anthony realizes he’s staring, cataloguing details, he blurts out, “uh,” and Duane responds with,  
“Eloquent as always, Professor Wright,” and he smiles.

“I’m a teacher, not a professor,” Anthony corrects. “I-” and he fumbles for words, he hates this part. Though he knows exactly what he’s going to say, there’s a strong desire to preserve the moment how it is. He opens his mouth, but the words don’t come. He was so vocal about it in college, when he thought he had something to prove. But he’s not much of a screamer these days.

“Is something wrong?” Duane asks, putting only a few inches between them, his hands coming to rest on the other’s hips. Anthony becomes acutely aware of how his are slightly curvier than the average man’s. He knows Duane can’t comprehend that, not through his untucked polo and slacks, not with his belt as a guard against his natural shape, but that doesn’t stop the niggling little fear.

He doesn’t like the feeling, but he likes that he’s feeling.

“I don’t know yet,” Anthony says, his voice distant. “I need to tell you something before this goes any further.”

“Is it that you’re a tranny? Because I already know that.” Duane says, not relenting in his grip. Anthony blinks slowly a few times, his lips parted slightly in his version of a slack-jawed look of wonder. “Look, man, I don’t know if this is the right thing to say or not, but I don’t care.” Anthony continues to stare, his fingers tightening on the taller man’s biceps. “That was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it?” Duane asks, a nervous smile stretching his bright pink lips. “Please tell me that’s a good laugh,” Duane says when the small blonde in his arms starts to laugh so hard that he doubles over into Duane’s chest.

“Yes,” Anthony chokes out in the space between his laughter and gasps for air. “Oh, yes,” he says, settling a bit, lifting his head to look at Duane, tears shining in his eyes and a smile on his lips. “I can stay out for a little bit if you just want to stand here and,” he pauses, reaching up to cup the back of Duane’s head, slowly, so that the other could back out at any time, pulling the taller man’s head down to his shoulder, “hug.”

“I’d like that,” Duane says, leaning over the shorter man, giving him just a bit of his weight. He’s well aware that they will see each other in the morning, but right now there’s a niggling little feeling, an acrid acidic smell that burns his throat and pounds in his skull, and those fingernails scratching through his hair are soothing it away.

In the morning, Chelsea wakes Anthony with a kiss to his nose and the older man halfheartedly swats at her. She laughs and drags him out of bed, and he wants nothing to do with her unusual morning cheeriness. It’s suspicious. But it turns out all she wants to do is dress him and do his hair for his date that’s not for another four hours and, “I can dress myself, thank you.”

“Yeah, like a librarian,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

“Those are my work clothes. I have-”

“Gay Axl Rose or grunge Thor if he wanted to jump Falcon’s bones, I know,” Chelsea says with a fond sigh, running her fingers through her hair, making it stick out at odd angles.

She paints his nails while he tries to eat peanut butter toast and sausage patties. He yanks his hand away when she goes for a bright red polish and they argue, much to Alex’s amusement, and they eventually settle on a deep forest green color. As soon as the polish is dry, she drags him off to his room and starts pulling clothes out of his closet, laying them on the bed in pairs and sets.

“You’re making this far more complicated than it has to be,” he says, hands on his pinstripe pajama hips, “and I hope you plan on putting all of that back.”

“But you have to look good for your first real date with the man. You get all dreamy-eyed and shit, so your outfit has to be perfect.” Anthony scoffs in response to this.

“We’re just going for a walk at the nature reserve, so I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt and freaking tennis shoes.” Chelsea whines her disappointment and offers a compromise,

“Fine. If you let me do your hair,” and Anthony groans. He really needs to get that cut.

She puts his hair in some stupid emo swoop thing that he figures he’ll just fix when he gets to his car. He fights her again when she tries to put eyeliner on him. Alex watches all of this from the bathroom doorway, laughing.

“Have a good time,” Chelsea says when she and Alex see him out, “I’ll be fucking your boyfriend while you’re gone, so text if you’re coming home early.” Alex squeaks and turns a stunning shade of red. With a mouth like that on her, he finds it hard to believe that the woman had ever tried to observe any Islamic traditions.

“You god damn better for all that shit I had to put up with this morning,” Anthony grumbles. He kisses Alex goodbye and Chelsea says,

“Love you!”

When Anthony says, “love you too,” he means it, even if he sounds like he doesn’t.


	8. Chapter 8

Anthony stops to buy another pack of cigarettes, and grabs two frozen coffee drinks from the cooler in the process. He hopes Duane will like the one with the long, complicated name, the white chocolate mocha whipped cream twist, or something of the sort, because he cracks into the just plain mocha one halfway through his last cigarette from the previous pack.

When he gets to the nature reserve’s little parking lot, Duane is already there, sitting on the hood of a tan Acura. There’s another car and an SUV in the lot, so they won’t have the place to themselves, but Anthony knows joggers won’t do much more than offer them greetings and run on. He has a lot of memories in this place, but those are best reserved for later, so he gets out of the car and offers Duane, who had stood the second Anthony had parked, the drink with a small smile. The bigger man thanks him and pulls him into a brief hug.

The path is pleasantly shaded, feeling ten degrees cooler under the protection of the trees, so Anthony doesn’t worry about how hot Duane must be with a ruddy brown flannel on. The tank top he can see peeking out from the parted front is tight, and it makes Anthony hunger.

They walk and talk for over an hour, taking one winding path, then the other. A woman with a couple of huskies gives them a small wave as she passes them, and they both nod back, raising their hands in little motions. They sneak off to a restricted area of the part to share a cigarette and finish their drinks against the husk of a dead tree that used to be a part of the reserve’s main attraction. The Three Sisters, these massive trees were called. There had only been two for several years now, but the third sister didn’t seem to want to fade away. She’d done her best to resist rot, but her trunk had started to hollow out where her cracked roots stuck up from the ground like gnarled fingers. Duane makes a joke about how that would be a good place to hide a body, and Anthony doubles over with laughter.

“I made that same joke the last time I was here,” he says, leaning his head on the unfortunately, in his opinion, covered scarred shoulder. Their fingers brush as they pass a second cigarette, and the silence that wraps them up is not at all unpleasant.

“My Girl Scout troop used to have meetings down here,” Anthony says once he snubs the cigarette out on his shoe. He puts the butt in his pocket because he loves this park and won’t do anything to defile it.

“Oh yeah?” Duane asks, thinking there’s a story behind that.

“Yeah,” Anthony says, his voice sounding just a little dreamy. He stands and offers Duane his hands to help him up, starting a short tale as soon as Duane takes them; “this is where we found out those mints make sparks when you crack them. It’s also where we found out one of the girls was scared shitless of raccoons.” Duane likes the sound of Anthony’s laughter, but more than that he likes the soft little sigh the blonde lets out when he pulls him into a hug.

“What else did your troop do?” Duane asks, wanting to keep the other talking as he runs a hand up and down his back.

“We went camping once, but my mom pulled me out after that. She said it wasn’t ladylike. I loved it, go figure,” he said with a chuckle that wasn’t exactly happy, but not quite bitter either.

“I’d think it would be a good thing for anyone to know how to do basic wilderness survival stuff.”

“You’d think, but not in the opinion of two people who made six figures a year,” Anthony grumbled, pulling back a bit. Just enough to take out another cigarette. He held it up and looked at Duane with a raised brow. The other nodded, but turned it down when it was offered to him.

“I can’t imagine growing up rich,” Duane said, letting Anthony pull away. He sucked his lip into his mouth for a second before stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Anthony says, and that’s the end of that. He changes the subject and eventually weasels Duane’s day job out of him. He works at a Subway, and he looks embarrassed at the admission. “It’s better than nothing,” Anthony says, but Duane’s not so sure.

His supervisors don’t quite understand that he just needs a minute to himself, away from the customers, away from his coworkers, preferably in the locked bathroom with the lights out and the water running. “So I can, I guess, take my shirt off and-” his voice doesn’t break, but it sounds strained, “I like to splash cold water on my arm when I’m feeling- out of it. I know that’s weird, sorry,” he says, looks off in the distance. There’s a bird perched on the other end of the dead tree, happily picking at the bugs there.

“I think it would be weirder if you didn’t do something like that,” Anthony says, “and you don’t need to apologize for something that isn’t your fault.”

“But is really though? I mean, not my fault,” and Duane is scratching at the scarring on his arm through the sleeve of his shirt. “I hold my shit together pretty well, a lot better than most of the others that I talk to at the clinic, but-” there are embarrassing admissions on the tip of his tongue, but his voice catches when Anthony takes his hand.

“We all cope in strange ways. Life has a way of fucking us over, so how we deal with the shit slung at us is no one else’s business. Besides,” Anthony says, swaying their clasped hands the slightest bit, “Subway is required by state law to give you a fifteen minute break every two hours.” He says it like it’s nothing, and Duane smiles, even if awkwardly. He brings the smaller hand in his to his lips and gives it an almost-kiss. He’s not quite sure Anthony understands, but he thinks the little blonde gets it more than most. Then, a question hits him and bubbles up before he can stop it,

“Were you military?” and he feels a little foolish, because of course not.

“Nope,” Anthony answers, “I just-” and he stops, wondering why he was about to summarize his whole history in one sentence and shakes the thought away, “-have been volunteering at the clinic for a couple years now, so I picked up some things.” Duane could tell he’d switched up his words at the last moment, but let it go, happy to just have the other there and close to him. After a few minutes of quiet hand holding, Anthony checks his phone with his free hand.

You got somewhere to be?” Duane asks, trying not to sound dejected.

“Not until five. I just wanted to see if we had time for me to take you out to eat first.”

Grateful though he may be, Duane says, “I’m not sure that’s the best idea right now. I-” he really wants to explain in detail, but all that comes out is, “-crowds, man.”

“Good thing I was going to suggest gas station burritos in my car, then, huh?” and Duane gives one of those big, toothy smiles Anthony likes so much. He gives his own reserved smile back.

Before they part ways, Anthony asks Duane if he’d like to come to their pizza party the next day. He explains that it’s only a small gathering of a few friends, and there probably won’t be much noise other than a baseball game in the background. He does explain that Chelsea, who is practically his roommate at this point, can get a little rowdy when they play cards, but assures him that she’s mostly harmless. Duane agrees and the two embrace until Anthony really has to go or he’ll be late.

Duane rubs his temples with his thumbs, sitting in the driver’s seat of his car, while he watches Anthony drive away.

Dr. Mitchell gives Anthony some strange looks that evening, but she quickly minds her own business when the blonde throws an obviously fake smile her way.

Chelsea and Jeremy are sharing a cigarette on the little porch when he gets home at a little before nine-thirty that evening. Chelsea grins and Jeremy waves. Anthony has the feeling she’s going to ask more questions about his date, even though his phone would not stop buzzing with her texts while he was at the clinic.

Inside, Anthony is a little surprised to find Dimitri sitting on the couch next to Alex. They hassle each other over some sort of wrestling game – and that was another thing Chelsea drug him into, kicking and screaming – and they seem to be enjoying themselves.

“Hello, Dimitri,” Anthony says, surprise evident in his voice.

“Hey, Mr. Wright. I- I can be here, right? I was just playing video games with Mr. Duncan because Jeremy brought me and-”

“Dude, don’t call me that. It makes me feel old. I’m just Alex.”

“Well, you are in your thirties,” the boy defends quietly. He has short brown hair with a golden sheen and wary gray eyes that chance a look up at Anthony.

“I would prefer that you got permission from your parents to be here, but if you can get that, it’s perfectly fine,” Anthony says, a little chuckle under his words.

“They said it’s OK,” Dimitri assures him, so he nods and heads to the kitchen. There are salad fixings laid out, so Anthony makes himself one, chuckling about how salad is a lovely precursor to pizza.

Alex drops Dimitri off around eleven, and Chelsea drags both Alex and Anthony off to bed when Alex gets back. Jeremy whines about being lonely until Anthony gets back up, clean from a quick shower, and plays Street Fighter with him for a couple of hours. When Jeremy falls asleep, Anthony scoops him up, concerned by how light he feels, and puts him on the guest bed. He peels off the other’s sneakers and makes a face at how disgusting and worn the boy’s socks are before putting the shoes on the floor where he will see them in the morning.

He returns to his room to find Chelsea and Alex talking quietly, her hand splayed on his cotton-clad chest. She beams at him when Anthony climbs into bed on the other side of Alex.

“So, did you fuck?” she asks.

“Did you?” he shoots back, and he already knows the answer because he saw the used condom in the bathroom waste bin.

“Uh, yeah,” she says, tilting her head upward with a half roll of her eyes. Anthony snorts.

“Well, we didn’t.”

“Aww. Maybe tomorrow,” she says.

“Go to sleep,” Anthony grouses, “I know you work in the morning.”  
“Ah, party pooper,” she says, but lays her head on Alex’s shoulder. Anthony mirrors the action and eventually they all drift off to sleep, a big, almost crazed smile on Alex’s face.


	9. Chapter 9

Anthony runs some errands in the morning, since his bank is open before noon on Saturdays and Alex will pitch a fit if there’s no ranch dressing for the pizza. He sends Duane a text while he’s in Wal-Mart, because he doesn’t shop at Kroger anymore since all the other nosy teachers seem to, and offers to pick him up. Duane accepts and texts him his address, waiting on his front porch when Anthony gets there.

Duane’s house looks like one of those small, standalone one bedroom apartments that parade themselves as houses, Anthony can’t help but think, even as he smiles when the other waves. He imagines it’s a straight shot from the front door to the back door, bathroom to the right, bedroom to the left, the back door in the kitchen. The house is a bright, flaking yellow, and Anthony thinks that suits Duane just fine. He’s a bright and cheerful person, just a little worn down. While Duane is distracted by fumbling with the door, Anthony frowns, wondering what his house says about him. But the taller man’s excited, somewhat nervous smile brings him back to the moment, and he backs out of the sorry excuse for a driveway.

Duane has his aviators on again, and a not-quite-matching rust orange and red plaid shirt, buttoned halfway, signature tank peeking out of the open neck. Some of his scars show, and Anthony wonders if the other will try to pass them off as a birthmark. He figures the other probably could, since whatever gave him the scars hadn’t damaged his ear.

In order to stop side-eyeing Duane’s scars, he starts telling the other about who all he expects to be there: Alex, his main squeeze; Chelsea, his best friend and quite possibly Alex’s girlfriend, though he’s not exactly sure; Jeremy, one of his students with a troubled home like that he doesn’t go into much detail over. He also tells Duane that he told Jeremy it would be alright if he invited a friend or two from school, as long as they got their parent’s permission, and Duane smiles all the while. Anthony feels his face heat, but keeps his eyes on the road.

When Anthony parks, Duane can feel the sudden spike of tension in the blonde without even touching him. He reaches over and rests his hand on Antony’s, which is squeezing the gearshift so hard that the old rubber creaks under his fingers for a moment. “What’s wrong?” he asks, trying to rub the tension out of Anthony’s straining knuckles. He can feel that most of them have been broken before.

“There’s a car here that I don’t recognize,” the blonde says, and forces his hand to relax. Once it does, Duane takes his away and turns off the car.

“Maybe it’s one of Jeremy’s friends,” Duane suggests, offering to carry the small bag of groceries.

“Doubt it,” Anthony says, “Only one with a car out of them is Con-El, and she would have emailed me to let me know she was coming. Chelsea didn’t tell me that she was bringing anyone, either.” Duane doesn’t have time to admire the firey patterned tulips planted in long lines around the porch because he’s following Anthony up the steely gray steps. Anthony pulls the screen door open, then stops. “Will it upset you if I end up yelling at someone?”

“It shouldn’t,” Duane says, his free hand holding the screen door open. Anthony only nods and pushes the heavy off-white door open.

The living room looks clear, so Anthony heads to the kitchen, Duane hot on his heels. The veteran had thought he’d seen anger on Anthony’s features before, but when they stepped into the brightly lit, checker-patterned room, the little white face twisted into a snarl at what he saw. The scene didn’t seem all that odd to Duane, but Anthony’s face was turning red and his nose wrinkled with his fury.

Some young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty-four had Chelsea backed against a slate gray countertop. She looked uncomfortable, irritated even, but the slightly chubby, freckled blonde was just flirting with her. He was leaning into her personal space, but the girl held her drink between them. She knew what she was doing, Duane was certain.

“Who are you?” Anthony asked, his voice even as ever to the casual observer, but Duane and Chelsea heard the threatening rumble under the forced calm.

“Name’s Ryan, and you are?” the young man asked, picking up a tan cap from the table. He put it on his head and raised his stubbled chin. Duane recognized when someone was sizing someone up to figure if they could take them in a fight and he tensed.

“Can you put those things in the refrigerator?” Anthony asked of Duane before taking a few steps toward the two in the corner. “I’m the owner of this house,” he told the stranger, “and you weren’t invited.”

“Relax,” Ryan instructed, giving a loose shrug of his shoulders that was all posturing. “I’m a friend of Chelse’s from work. She said she was going to a party, so my friends and I thought we’d tag along. Is that a problem?”

“It is very much a problem since I did not invite you, and you are making my friend very uncomfortable.”

“Chelse?” Ryan asks, turning to look at her for a second before throwing an arm around her shoulder. She’s a little taller than him, so the task is difficult and her face scrunches up in a look of disgust. Anthony’s action is so quick, so instinctual that Duane has no reaction to it. It’s just a thing that happens when he closes the refrigerator door. The poor young man barely has time to get out his, “we go way back,” before Anthony’s hand is wrapped around his thick wrist and he forcefully yanks him away from the young woman. He twists Ryan’s arm behind his back in a show of unexpected brute force, pushing him to bend halfway over the kitchen table. “Hey, man, chill. Chill! Just let me finish my pizza and we’ll leave.”

Duane wants to not have smirked as Anthony wrenched the younger man upright, guiding him by the grip on his wrist. He really wanted to keep a straight face while Anthony grabbed the half-eaten slice of pizza he figured was Ryan’s, folded it in half and crammed it in the freckled face. Instead he laughs at the expression on the kid’s sauce-smeared face, follows Anthony to the front door and holds it open so the little blonde can boot the brat out, hissing threats all the while. Anthony slams the door and locks it and Duane asks,

“Are you OK?” as the walls rattle.

He’s a little startled by the “unimportant” he gets in response, but follows Anthony back to the kitchen. “Are you alright?” he asks Chelsea, taking her free hand. He helps her to a chair, and she gives a rueful little laugh, promising that she’s fine.

“I don’t know about the others, though. Ah, Jeremy and Dimitri tried to run them off when they started messing with Alex. I- I thought they had it, so I kept Ryan in here, pretending like I cared about what he had to say.”

“How many?”

“Just two. They were scrawny, so I doubt anyone got hurt.”

“Where?”

“They were in the living room, but Alex ran off to the bedroom, so I don’t know where-” Alex rises from his crouch, cutting her off. He gestures with his hand, a sort of ‘wait’ motion, and he says,

“I’ll be back,” before running off. Duane follows, once more surprised by the blonde and his single-minded focus. He bounds in through the door to the master bedroom, and Duane stops just behind him. The room is dark, but the light from the hall filters in, even if they’re blocking most of it. Two teens are guarding the bathroom door, a sliver of light peeking out from under it, and two barely-twenty-somethings harassing them. “Because I’m generous,” Anthony starts, drawing their attention, “I’ll give you thirty seconds to vacate my property before I start hurting you.” Duane only feels a little bad for thinking the feral snarl that is Anthony’s voice is kinda hot.

The strangers vacate immediately, letting out little, fearful squeaks as they press themselves against the doorframe to get around Duane. Anthony knows they were more scared of the big, black man behind him that of his threats, but that’s easier than fighting, so he doesn’t feel offended, feels a bit relieved. Until he remembers Alex.

“Jeremy, Dimitri, go make sure Chelsea is alright,” he nearly commands. Duane coughs to cover up the awkward feeling he had, wanting to drop to his knees at the sound of that command. That’s new, he thinks, and something to examine later. Maybe in the shower. The boys run off, and his cough got Anthony’s attention. “This might be bad, so if you want to go wait in the kitchen, that’s OK. Anyone who is left is a friendly.” Without waiting for a response, he turns to the bathroom door. His voice becomes so much softer when he says, “baby, they’re gone. It’s just me now. Can you unlock the door for me, please?”

Duane steps back to the bedroom door, but decides to hang back away from everyone else for the time being. He can sort of see Anthony and can hear Alex crying, quiet as it may be. Anthony waits a three count after the lock clicks to open the door. Duane leans into the room just a little to get a glimpse of Anthony dropping to his knees in front of a man who looks a few years older than the blonde. His arms are scratched red and bleeding in spots, little pinpricks welling up. Anthony talks to this man in the sweetest voice he’s ever heard the other use, bringing his hands up to the other’s cheeks. He kisses the tears away and eventually coaxes the raven haired man into letting him clean his scratches. When they emerge from the bathroom, Duane ducks out into the hall to wait.

His heart hammers in his chest, but it doesn’t feel like a panic attack. It feels more like embarrassment, like he witnessed a private moment he shouldn’t have. Seeing Anthony switch his expression of emotion on and off like that left him with his head spinning. Anthony comes out of the room a few minutes later, closing the door behind him. He heaves a heavy sigh and forces a smile for Duane.

“He’s a little shaken up right now. He’ll join us later,” he says. Duane nods and lets himself be led back to the kitchen.

Anthony explains the situation to the rest of the crew, who were almost solemnly picking at pizza – save for Jeremy – then introduces Duane.

Chelsea lifts the mood when she says, “Well! Dimitri, Duane, you have now seen Anthony angry. You’re officially part of the fam!” Anthony grunts, picks a pepperoni off of his slice and throws it at her. She just picks it off of her shirt and eats it.

When the teens start chattering, and Chelsea joins in, Duane asks, “do you need a minute?” Instead of directly answering, Anthony says,

“A cigarette seems like a good idea to me. Would you like to come?”

“Sure,” he answers, and they both stand. The others take notice, but don’t follow.

Outside, Anthony is relieved to see the strange car is gone, and he lights a cigarette. Duane turns it down when he’s offered one. “That was an unfortunate way to introduce you to my family. I’m- I’m sorry you had to see me get violent with someone.” Duane chuckles a little at that.

“Honestly, it was kinda hot,” he says, sounding the tiniest bit strained, but like he’s trying not to laugh, rather than forcing it out and Anthony turns to look at him. When the blonde scoffs, but smiles, Duane can’t resist the urge to put his arm around the other. Anthony leans into the embrace until he finishes his cigarette.

An hour later, Alex joins them and is properly introduced to Duane. Alex eats between bouts of Mario Kart with Dimitri while the rest of them play poker. Alex takes Dimitri home and Anthony takes Duane home.

“Next time I’ll show you my place,” Duane says, hooking his thumb over his shoulder at the little house. Anthony makes a small, happy noise and Duane starts to sputter. “Hey, uh, if it’s not too soon- I mean, we’ve technically been on three dates- if- I was wondering if, maybe-” Anthony gives a good-natured snort and leans over to press his lips to Duane’s. It’s chaste, but warm, and the taller man melts. “Thanks,” he says, looking embarrassed.

“Any time,” Anthony answers.


	10. Chapter 10

“In my experience, people aren’t like that,” Anthony says, Monday evening at the clinic. He sits at his desk, trying in vain to organize his paperclips, and Mary scoffs, tapping the toe of her steel-toed work boot on the floor hard enough to make sounds. She used to keep her hair buzzed, but she’s growing it out these days. The kinky copper mass is just beyond the tops of her ears.

“Surely you’ve been around the block a couple of times. You’re, what, a little older than me, right? You’ve got to know how it is,” she says, leaning on her elbows on the desk.

“I’ll be thirty-one in August,” Anthony grumbles.

“Well! You’re just a baby,” she says and the blonde rolls his eyes. “A Virgo, too. No wonder you’re so naive.”

Anthony tries to level her with a glare, but she just laughs. He asks, “how old are you?”

“Thirty-five,” she says with a shrug. “But that’s hardly relevant to the conversation. And don’t you know not to ask a lady her age?”

“You, a lady?” Anthony asks and Mary laughs, full and hearty.

“You’re right, I guess. But what I said still stands. He’s a man’s man, and not in the likes-dick-in-his-mouth way. Hyper-masculinity and homophobia are still issues in the black community. It’s not racist, or sexist, it’s just a thing that is, and a thing that you’re going to have to deal with the fallout from eventually.”

“Why do I feel like you’re waving a Women’s Studies degree in my face?”

“Dr. Mitchell would call that avoidance,” Mary says, smirking.

“I’m not avoiding anything,” Anthony says with a huff. He picks a piece of lint off of his button down before he continues, “he’s not like that and it’s not like that.”

“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Don’t come running to me when his family doesn’t like you or your lifestyle,” she says, pointing dramatically.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says with a smirk.

“You should come out with me for a drink sometime.”

“Mary, I’m gay,” Anthony says blandly, and Mary rolls her eyes.

“I meant as a friend, dumbass. You’ll be my wingman. Hmm, Friday?”

“We’ll see,” is all he says. Her knowing smirk says that he will go, regardless of what he wants.

Jeremy is sitting on his porch when Anthony gets home. The blonde sits beside the boy and offers him a cigarette thinking, he’ll be eighteen soon, anyway. They smoke together in contemplative silence, Jeremy’s split lip staining his filter red. He scrubs a hand over his face, grunting when it comes away smeared with blood. Jeremy curls his hand up in his lap, not wanting to get blood on his favorite teacher’s porch.

“How bad is it?” Jeremy asks, tilting his chin up so the light from the street lamp not too far away will catch his face. The blood looks black in this light, shining with the same yellow the boy’s face is tinted.

“Might need stitches,” Anthony answers.

“Can you do stitches?” the boy asks, bringing his hand up again because he can feel blood oozing over his lip, sitting in the hollow below his lip and threatening to drip off of his chin.

“I can, but I don’t feel comfortable doing them on someone so young.” The brunette mop only grunts in response and finishes his cigarette. He stubs it out in the pot of the fake rubber plant that doubles as an ashtray.

“It hurts,” Jeremy says with a weak little laugh.

“I know,” Anthony says and stands, offering Jeremy a hand. The teen takes it and follows the man inside. They go to the hall bathroom and Anthony cleans Jeremy’s split lip as best he can, then pinches the chapped, cracked lip together, applying a spot of wig glue to the outer most portion of the gash, since he doesn’t have any liquid skin and figures that wouldn’t be strong enough anyway. Jeremy is grateful when his lip starts to feel numb, and takes the Aspirin Anthony offers him.

Anthony eats the food Alex left for him, pigs in a blanket left in the stove only needing to be reheated, and Jeremy sits nearby, sipping a glass of milk through a straw. The older man doesn’t offer the boy anything else because he knows it will be turned down. He worries more and more about Jeremy’s eating habits as the brat spends more time at his house and started buying green beans, when he’d really rather have broccoli or spinach, just so the boy will eat something.

After that, they sit on the couch and listen to the ten o’clock news, not really hearing it, just waiting for Alex and Chelsea to get home. Anthony sort of stares off into space and Jeremy doesn’t fare much better. The boy takes a deep breath and sighs it out through his nose before saying,

“Can I just stay with you for the rest of the summer? I’ll go out and get a job, and give you a little money for rent. I just don’t want to stay there anymore.”

“Money doesn’t matter, Jeremy,” Anthony says. He thinks about stealing some of the liquor Chelsea had squirreled away in their cabinets, but decides not to because the bitch fit she will pitch wouldn’t be worth it. “Won’t your mom notice you’re gone?”

“She’ll probably be happy,” Jeremy says, his tone barely bitter, like he doesn’t even have the energy to be mad. “It would probably make things easier on my dad because he won’t have to keep getting yelled at for giving me money to stay in hotels. You can talk to him about it. He’ll understand,” and Anthony makes a face at that, but not because he doesn’t believe Jeremy. He’s talked to Arthur on the phone several times. He’s a reasonable man, but the blonde is afraid of trying his luck like that.

“Okay,” is all he says.

“Thanks,” Jeremy says, and becomes a solid little weight against Anthony’s side. They stay that way for a long moment, the boy just leaning against his teacher until the older man starts to relax the slightest bit and even lift his arm for Jeremy to snuggle in closer. “Hey,” he starts after the anchor on the TV finishes the update on the latest mass shooting, “how come you don’t talk much?”

“I guess I’ve got nothing to say,” Anthony answers.

“That’s bullshit,” Jeremy says, looking up at the older man. “Every time someone at school comes to you with a problem, you have an answer.” He nods his head from side to side as if considering what he said. “Or at least a temporary patch.”

“I was a teenager once. Not that long ago, believe it or not,” Anthony says, plastering on a fake put-off look.

“Tell me a story from when you were my age.”

“From when I was seventeen, hmm,” Anthony trails off for a moment, thinking about different things that had happened around that time. He’d just graduated high school, opted out of the graduation ceremony to get high with a little transgirl and her girlfriend, been forced to go to college. He’d picked one that irritated his mother, but she reluctantly paid for, and the woman had nearly had a heart attack when he picked Integrated Language Arts as his major. He compromised with her by double majoring in business and dropped that the same day his mother passed away, though that was a couple years later. At seventeen, he’d been halfway between a hellion and a nerd, but never quite what people considered normal. He hung out with the rougher kids from the spoiled brats of unreasonably rich parents, the ones who thought they could get away with anything because of their money. Most of the time they could. They used to get tipsy on hard cider and break the bottles with their father’s guns. Anthony wishes he hadn’t smiled when he remembered the first knock-down, drag-out brawl he’d had with one of those boys he’d secretly hated because Jeremy says,

“That one.”

“Hmm?”

“Whatever you’re thinking about right now, tell me.”

“Ah, I don’t think you’ll like that story,” he tries, but Jeremy is having none of it. “Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

“I used to hang out with some guys who thought they were tough shit because they had money and guns and lawyers. We used to shoot old beer bottles, but one day one of the guys took a shot at a stray cat and I clocked him in the jaw. That was really stupid because they all had guns, but luckily they just let us fight it out. I lost a tooth, but he came out worse.”

“In a surprising turn of events, Mr. Wright has a sordid past!” Jeremy teases, sitting back a little and looking at the older man like he expects him to continue.

“It’s hardly sordid,” Anthony says with a scoff.

“Guns and fist fights? Totes sordid. Did you do drugs, too?” and Jeremy is joking, but his brows raise when the blonde says,

“Yeah, but not too terribly often. That was more when I was, oh, thirteen or fourteen. By seventeen it was just cigarettes and weed on rare occasions. I was in a lot of AP classes, so I didn’t really have the time to do drugs.”

Jeremy laughs for a while. “You’re a riot!” he says happily. Once his laughter evens out, he asks, “Tell me your coming out story?”

Anthony flinches hard, the memory of his mother’s hand fisted in his hair, dragging him across the spotless, steam-cleaned carpet as real as the teen next to him for less than a second. Jeremy almost falls off the couch, and Anthony’s hand snaps out to grab the youth before he even realizes he’s catching him. He sets the light boy back on the couch, further away from him than before.

“That bad, huh?”

“No, I just- I’ve been through much worse. That’s a story for another time, though.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jeremy says, and nods like he knows. “Can I play Mercenaries for a bit?”

Anthony gives him permission and steps outside for a cigarette. He thinks he shouldn’t, but he texts Duane. He’s anxious while waiting for a text, picking at the gray paint on the porch’s guardrail to avoid scratching his face. Duane texts back, and he’s happy, it seems. They both admit to being a little lonely and chat for a bit through short messages.

Chelsea and Alex get home by the time Anthony finishes his third cigarette, and after Jeremy yawns and heads for the guest room, the blonde showers quickly and curls up in bed with the others. He buries his face in Chelsea’s armpit and fists his hand in Alex’s shirt.

The rest of the week moves on without incident, Anthony meeting with Jeremy’s father about the boy staying with him. He gives the plump, tall older man a tour of his house, shows him the room Jeremy will be using and helps the Regals move some of Jeremy’s things in. They share contact information and Jeremy hugs his father tightly.

Thursday, Mary somehow manages to talk Duane into coming to the bar with them and she laughs at the sound of Anthony’s head hitting the desk with a loud thunk. Her laughter only grows more raucous when Anthony groans and Dr. Mitchell looks so terribly confused.

Friday night, at nine on the dot, Mary walks into the clinic wearing jean shorts and a white top that is just a little too tight.

“Let’s go,” is all she says.


	11. Chapter 11

Anthony complains all throughout cleaning the lobby, shutting down the computer and walking out the door, much to Mary’s amusement. Duane even seems the slightest bit amused even if his expression is tinged with concern. Regardless, the men follow the redhead to the bar of her choice.

She immediately starts knocking back shots and Duane shakes his head. He orders a pot of coffee for he and Anthony to share and firmly tells the blonde that he’s paying that night.

The seats are uncomfortable where they’re positioned, vaguely reminiscent of the long tables with benches in the school lunch room, but Mary wanted to sit near the dance floor, so that’s where they’re stationed. Anthony suggests that the stools by the bar might be more comfortable, but she says she wants to get herself a dancer, not a pickup artist, so they stay there.

“Hey, faggots!” a familiar voice greets, and two thick arms wrap around both Anthony and Duane’s shoulders. Both men roll their eyes and pull away from Henry. He plants a big, sloppy kiss on Anthony’s cheek and the blonde shrieks, and makes to shove him away, but Henry vaults over the table before he can. The action draws the attention of the wait-staff, but when Henry settles, so do they. The bigger man’s face is flushed, red and he’s sweating a little, clearly having been drinking for a while before they got there. His stringy brown hair has grown out a bit and it’s plastered to the sweat on his forehead, and once more Anthony thinks that he needs to get his cut.

“He becomes one of those ‘faggots’ he supposedly hates after he’s had a few shots,” Mary says, leaning in close so he can hear her over the music.

“Nonsense!” Henry says, swiping his hair away from his forehead. Apparently his hearing is better than most, because he continues in his booming voice, “I’m just a really friendly drunk,” and he nods his head a few times. Mary rolls her eyes and scans the dancefloor for a potential target.

The place isn’t packed, but Anthony starts to wonder if it’s crowded enough to make Duane uncomfortable. When he looks over, the other man seems alright, false bravado and big grins in place while he trades playful insults with Henry between sips of cream and sugar loaded coffee. After a few minutes, Mary leans back in.

“You’re a terrible wingman,” she accuses. Anthony gives her an irritated look over his mug, and for some reason he can’t discern it makes her grin.

He sits his mug down and says, “pick one you want and I’ll go get him for you,” as plain as always.

“I want that brunette in the skinny jeans,” she says, pointing to a man who is probably ten years younger than her with a man bun and a black t-shirt over hip huggers.

Anthony shrugs and gets up, not noticing the way Duane watches. The blonde weaves his way through the people walking by, falling into step with the woman the young man is dancing with. Manbun looks put off for a moment, especially after Anthony whispers something in the skinny bottle-red haired girl’s ear. She titters and wanders off, dancing her way through the maybe two dozen people on the dance floor. There’s a moment of awkward tension that the vets watch with great interest as Anthony slides up against the young man. They have a short conversation before the blonde is tilting his head in Mary’s direction. She ducks her head like she’s a lot younger and shyer than she actually is, and a grin spreads over Manbun’s face. He gives Anthony a loose salute and heads off toward their table.

A pretty, dark-haired woman offers to dance with Anthony, but he politely turns her down, heading back to the table himself. Mary and Manbun are chatting excitedly while Henry wanders off to buy himself another drink. The redhead pulls her phone out of her pocket and taps out a quick message, showing it to Anthony when he sits down next to her.

Thanks, now scram.

He laughs and stands, turning to Duane and holding his fingers to his lips in the universal gesture for having a cigarette. The man nods and follows him out the back exit.

“What did you tell that guy to get him to come over to Mary?” Duane asks as Anthony lights a cigarette. He takes one when the shorter man offers.

“I told him I’d stop flirting with him if he gave my friend a chance.”

Duane laughs, and they sit at an old, battered picnic table that rests awkwardly in the parking lot. They smoke two cigarettes each before Anthony asks,

“Were you doing alright in there?”

Duane takes a deep breath before he answers, “not really, but Mary has a way of forcing people to be OK. I kinda like it. She keeps us all together because we’re kind of afraid of her.” There’s a little nervous laugh after that.

“You guys have done this before?”

“She’s dragged just about everyone she could out to a bar at least once. This’ll make four for me. You got your Mary cherry popped tonight,” Duane says and laughs at the scandalized look on Anthony’s face. “Hey, do you dance like that often?”

“No, why? Did you want to go back in and dance?”

Duane tenses a little, but covers it up with a shake of his head. He sticks his tongue out for a quick second and starts to pick at the portion of scars that barely show above the neck of his hoodie. “I wouldn’t mind dancing, but that’s too many people. I’d have to do the robot if I danced in there. Ya know, ‘cuz I’d be so tense.” He lets out another nervous laugh, barely more than a scoff, and Anthony stubs out his cigarette. The blonde stands and offers both of his hands to Duane, palms up.

“Wanna dance?”

“I can’t dance,” Duane says, letting the smaller man pull him up anyway.

“Bull. If you can move, you can dance,” Anthony says, guiding one of Duane’s hands around his neck, and he keeps the other in his grip. He guides the taller man around the crumbling black top, Duane muttering ‘sorry’s between bouts of laughter at stepping on Anthony’s feet.

“This isn’t club dancing,” he says eventually.

“I’m better at this,” Anthony says with a loose shrug.

It isn’t long before Mary is stumbling out the back door with Manbun at her side, someone else flinging Henry out behind them. They’re all laughing, but the man at the door doesn’t look amused.

“What did you do?” Anthony asks, hands in his hips after Duane had pulled away.

“Drunk and disorderly if you don’t get them home, now,” the man in the doorway says, a disappointed, nearly angry frown on his face. Mary and Henry and Manbun laugh, Anthony sighs and Duane looks like he just accepts the situation, moving to help the blonde when he gets the drunkards to their feet.

“I’m taking this one home with me,” Mary says as the man in the doorway shuts the door.

“How? You can’t drive,” Duane says from where he’s hauling Henry to his feet one-handed.

“Anthony will take us back to my place,” she says, then gives him her best puppy-dog eyes, big and green and she starts laughing when she says, “please.”

“If you vomit in my car, you will pay the cleaning bill,” he threatens.

“Score!” she cries, throwing her fist in the air.

Once the two have got the drunks packed away in their cars, Duane turns to Anthony. He takes the smaller man’s bicep in hand, carefully, pushes him just enough to turn the smaller body toward his.

“Hey, I promised I’d show you my place next time. Can you stay out a while longer? If you wanna crash at my place, you can have the bed. I, uh, I end up on the floor most nights, anyway.”

“Sure,” Anthony says with a little nod.  
Mary rolls down the window and shouts, “Hey, c’mon! Let’s go. I don’t have any condoms here.” Anthony’s eyes bug.

“Don’t you dare fuck in my car!” and Duane laughs. “I’ll see you in half an hour or so. I’ll text you if I run into any issues.”

By the time Anthony drops Mary off at her place, a decent sized one bedroom apartment in a red brick building, she’s sobered up quite a bit. So has Manbun, and they appear pleased at their conquest that evening. Anthony goes back to Duane’s house, but his car isn’t in the gravel driveway, so he parks on the street and waits.

“Sorry about that,” Duane says when he gets in, slamming the door of his car shut. He looks a little amused and a little irritated. “Henry wanted me to drop him off down the street from his place, said his family wouldn’t like me. I insisted on walking him to his door, and well,” he stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and leans forward to rest his head on Anthony’s shoulder. “I ain’t heard someone seriously use the word nigger since I was a kid.”

“They hurt you?” Anthony asked, moving the other’s head back so he could get a look at his face.

“Nah, I’m fine now,” Duane says, smiling down at Anthony. “Wanna come in?”

“I’d like that.”

Duane’s house is almost exactly what Anthony expected, with the addition of a very small living room. It’s very plainly, sparsely furnished, and the only other door in the house goes to the bathroom – the entrance to the bedroom is just a plain archway. There are a few items of clothing laying around, but no real clutter.

“Sorry it’s so plain,” Duane says, heading to the kitchen. He digs around in the five foot tall refrigerator while Anthony looks around. There’s a large TV and a loveseat in the small living room with a thin coffee table with the varnish worn off. With how everything is positioned, all entrances in sight from a position on the couch, back of the seating away from the window, Anthony thinks there might be a gun of a knife tucked up under the table. There’s a slight pang of sympathy somewhere in Anthony’s chest, or maybe his stomach as it makes an uneasy turn.

Duane recognizes the patterns Anthony’s eyes are making as he looks around the room. He holds out a hard lemonade for the blonde and says, “you sure you weren’t military? I see you checking those exits.” There’s a moment of silence. Duane waits until Anthony has the bottle to his lips before he asks, “you’re not afraid of me, are you?”

Anthony smirks around the glass because he recognizes that timing technique. He takes a long pull from the bottle before he says, “no, I’m not.” His smirk falters as the two stand awkwardly halfway in the living room. “I’m just- not sure if I should tell you what I was thinking.”

“I like you because you’ve been honest with me. More than anyone else since I got back, anyway. Don’t stop now.”

“Alright.”


	12. Chapter 12

“You sleep on the couch most nights, don’t you?” Anthony asks, motioning to the permanent glute shaped indent in the end of the sofa closest to the corner. There’s a hastily folded blanket over the arm.

“If I sleep at all, I usually end up on the floor by the bed,” Duane answers. “Wanna sit?” he asks, splaying his hand and offering his usual spot. Anthony is touched by the offer, taking Duane’s hand when he sits, pulling the other man down with him. “Actually, it’s not so bad anymore,” the dark skinned man says, staring at their laced fingers. “It got a lot easier once these stopped hurting,” he said, shrugging his left shoulder. “I’ve seen you staring. I’m surprised you haven’t asked what happened yet. Everyone always does.” His voice is heavy, a little deeper and quieter than usual.

“They’re pretty,” Anthony says simply, and Duane scoffs. It’s not a bitter noise, rather it’s amused. Anthony continues, “and I figured you’d tell me if you wanted me to know.”

Duane reaches over Anthony to put his own drink on the table, then turns his body into the shorter man, straddling his lap. “Can you be real?” He asks, sounding reverent, taking Anthony’s face in his hands. The smaller man gives a little cooing sound that makes Duane shake. Anthony pulls him closer with his arms around his waist. “Hey, uh, if we wind up doing anything tonight, I gotta warn you. I- well, it’ll be over in about ten seconds.” His knee doesn’t quite fit between Anthony and the arm of the couch, but he makes it work, sitting back on Anthony’s knees. “It’s been a while,” he admits, letting his hands come to rest on the blonde’s shoulders.

“That’s alright,” Anthony promises, working his thumbs under the other’s sweater and tank top. “I’m not much of a penetrative sex guy, anyway. Been told I give killer head, though,” and Duane shivers again when Anthony smirks.

“Do you- do you like this? Uh, sitting, like this. Would you rather be the one in my lap?” Duane asks, tracing the shape of Anthony’s shoulders and biceps through his shirt. He’s a bit surprised by the bulk of them. The clothes the little blonde wears make him look even smaller.

“No, I like this plenty well,” Anthony says, sliding his hands up Duane’s sides. “Always wanted a handsome young man in my lap like this.”

“Young?” Duane asks, his voice cracking with the suddenness of his laughter. “I’m pushing forty.”

“Oh,” Anthony says, blinking a few times.

“Wow,” the older man says, resting his head on the couch beside Anthony’s head. He’s still laughing. “I’m flattered, man, but damn. How old are you?”

“Thirty,” Anthony answers, fingers tightening around Duane’s sides like the older man will bolt.

“Relax,” Duane says, taking his face out of the fabric. He turns to press a feather light kiss on Anthony’s jaw. “I’m not going anywhere if you’re not. If you can handle an old, broken man like me, I’m yours.”

“You’re not old, or broken. Even if you were, old, broken tools still have uses and often wind up making the most beautiful art.” Duane laughs at that, pressing more kisses into Anthony’s cheek.

“Do you always have the exact right thing to say?”

“Nope,” Anthony says with a little chuckle that verges on a giggle. “That’s why I keep my mouth shut most of the time.” He turns his head into Duane’s kisses, pressing their lips together.

They don’t wind up doing anything that night, just cuddling, swapping funny stories. When Anthony tries to hide a yawn, Duane takes him by the hand and leads him to the bed. It’s only a mattress with a fitted sheet on the floor, another sheet bunched up in the corner of the bed. There’s barely enough space to walk between the bed and the wall furthest the window, but that’s where Duane decides to lay. There are pillows everywhere and they have a fun time gathering and distributing them, setting them up so they can both be comfortable. Anthony doesn’t insist Duane take the bed, just leans over the side of it and places his hand on Duane’s chest, which is only covered by a tank top.

“I doubt I’ll scream,” the man on the floor says, “but I’m sorry if I do.”

“Same,” Anthony says, and it raises all sorts of questions for Duane. He decides to leave them for later, happy with what he has for the time being.

In the morning, Duane’s phone is blowing up with messages from Mary, asking him to come get her and Manbun and Henry, because apparently he won’t stop texting her. He texts back saying she can take Henry to get his car once he takes her to get hers. Duane offers Anthony a quick, small breakfast of toast with butter and strawberry jelly. Anthony catches a glimpse inside the refrigerator when Duane closes it after putting the jelly away.

“I don’t have much right now. Haven’t really felt up to shopping lately.” He takes a bite of his own bread, two slices pressed together with the cool ingredients between them. “We can go out to a Waffle House or something after I get Mary, if you want.”

“I see those eggs. You are a man after my heart,” Anthony says while he rinses the stickiness from his hands in the kitchen sink. He referenced the five carton box shoved off to one side of the small ice box.

“Eggs? I mean, what you said, yeah, but because of the eggs?”

“My favorite food.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He can’t help but smile.

“Wanna come back to my place instead of going out somewhere? I know it’s a bit of a drive, but I promise Alex’s cooking is worth it,” Anthony offers.

“Yeah, alright. Sorry to run like this,” Duane apologizes, coming up to the smaller man, cupping his cheek. He steals a quick kiss and smiles at how easy affection is with this curiously reserved young teacher.

“Not your fault,” Anthony says, brushing his nose against Duane’s.

When Duane gets to Anthony’s place a good hour later, he can hear the music outside the front door. It’s something loud and cheerful and foreign with trumpets. It gets a lot louder when Chelsea opens the door and grins devilishly at him, motioning for him to come in. Alex and Anthony sing along with the song, the blonde making eggs, the darker haired man chopping up tomatoes. Jeremy nods his head from side to side, sitting at the table and nibbling on an egg white green bean omelet.

When the song ends, Anthony turns the music down to a level that can easily be spoken over, looking at the name of the next song on the MP3 player’s display before putting it back on the table. He turns to greet Duane, but Chelsea is the first to speak;

“We’re having another pizza party today. Wanna come?”

“I- uh, sure,” Duane says, laughing away the awkwardness of the sudden question. Anthony pulls a face and Chelsea sticks her tongue out at him.

“Some of my friends from school are coming over, but they’re good people,” Jeremy explains.

Duane nods, and the way Alex and Chelsea watch with barely hidden grins on their faces is a little unnerving, but he slides up behind the blonde to give him a brief hug anyway. He sits at the table next to the high schooler and gives a small “thanks” when Alex puts a cup of coffee in front of him. When he takes a sip, he’s floored to find it made to his liking.

When Jeremy’s friends show up just a little after one, no one is surprised that the original five spent the last few hours sitting around the dining room table, polishing off a pot of coffee and talking about video games. When Demetri and the comic book nerds come in the door, Anthony checks his phone while Con-El fills the freezer and refrigerator with the things necessary to make sundaes. He has two e-mails; one from Con-El, and one from her mother, telling him she’s coming and that she has permission to spend the night as long as she’s not the only girl who stays.

The comic book girls are known as Con-El and Dick because, much like Superboy and Robin, they’re inseparable. The chubby little blonde is also a bit of a dick, and she earned herself that nickname before everyone started making comparisons to comic book bromances and dubbed the older girl Con-El. Anthony doesn’t blame her for her behavior – she’s told him a bit about what she goes through at home. At fifteen, she’s the sole caregiver of an old woman who can’t even walk and is spiteful because of it. She has no family but that old woman, so he doesn’t ask her for her parents’ permission for anything, accepting permission slips she’s signed herself even though he shouldn’t. They’re signed Colleen Robinette, though he knows she’s tempted to sign Dick Grayson.

Con-El is a different story, but no less sympathetic. Her mother is a young, divorced business woman who’d started her own company with the divorce settlement. Though the company took off and the small family is easily making six figures, Con-El is still used to being poor, like it was when her parents were separated. She works at a gas station a few days a week, and buys Dick lunch every day when they’re at school. Con-El doesn’t appear to be sympathetic to her father’s side of the story, throwing away letters that the man sends her in his classroom at lunch, explaining what they are, and that she wants nothing to do with them. They’re all addressed to one Melanie Davidson, but as far as she’s concerned, she’s Con-El.

Anthony has those letters stored in one of the locked drawers of his desk and plans to give them to her when she’s ready to read them.

He doesn’t know much about Dimitri. He knows the sixteen year old’s last name is Gabris, which he found out in a letter from the boy’s parents that gave him permission to be at the teacher’s house. It had the parent’s contact information, and he called just to be safe. Mr. Gabris seemed confused as to why he was calling, since he’d written and signed the letter, but promised that he trusted Anthony with his son’s care. He also asked the blonde to remind Dimitri to brush his teeth, and Anthony wondered if adults were more trusted with children in Greek culture, but said nothing about it and he couldn’t be bothered to get out his phone and look it up, simply thanking the man for his time and hanging up.

They ordered six pizzas and managed to eat most of the box’s contents and tore through the ice cream and syrups, Chelsea making suggestive gestures with it. Alex peeled the cheese off of a slice of pizza and lined it with green beans before carefully laying the cheese back over them and putting it in the oven for the cheese to melt over them. Jeremy was so grateful he nearly cried, swiping a cigarette from Anthony to have a moment to himself before coming back in to eat it. Anthony was surprised by how well Alex took to the new teenagers, but he thought he shouldn’t have been when he remembered they were all Batman fans. When the topic of discussion turned to fanfiction, though, Alex’s eyes bugged and he took Dimitri and Jeremy to the living room to play videogames turned up loud enough to drown out whatever the others had to discuss.

They wound up fumbling around in the closets to pull out an old air mattress and enough pillows and sheets for the teenagers. Anthony had never been so grateful to have two and a half bathrooms when they all decided they wanted showers. The teens laid on the air mattress, three of them, anyway, across it and their feet dangled off the ends while Jeremy laid claim to the couch, stretching out over it.

Chelsea and Alex took the main bed and offered, out of awkward politeness, for the other two to join them, but there simply wasn’t enough room, so Anthony led Duane up the thin, steep staircase at the back of the hallway. The teacher didn’t use the attic study much, preferring to curl up on the couch to grade papers. But when Alex was away, visiting his parents out in California, he spent most of his time there because it felt less lonely than the house that was too big for just one person. There was a collection of beanbag chairs and pillows in one corner opposite a small coffee table where Anthony would usually put his work while up there. The whole area was framed with unopened boxes and unused linens. There was a tiny room with a toilet and sink as far away from the window as possible, and Anthony had had the area carpeted shortly after they’d moved in. He and Duane curled up in the gratuitous fluffiness and talked until they drifted off.

Later that night, Anthony would be startled awake.


	13. Chapter 13

It only takes Anthony a few seconds to become fully aware of his surroundings when he wakes up, but by that point Duane is already several feet away, leaning against a stack of cardboard boxes. He has his left arm pressed into them so hard they’re denting, threatening to topple over. The blonde doesn’t say anything, just moves a little closer, sits cross-legged just out of striking distance. He doesn’t try calling out the other’s name because he knows the other isn’t there with him, so he waits.

Duane’s right hand clutches at his bare left shoulder. He’d shed his long sleeved shirt for comfort before going to sleep, but feeling his skin did nothing to take him from the memory. His head was turned up toward the ceiling, though his eyes were screwed shut. He didn’t want to look down and see his own skin boiling, even though he knew it wasn’t. In his panicked state, he couldn’t remember where the bathroom was that he’d seen the previous night, and memories bled into reality. The summer air in the attic was hot and thick and he choked on it like the smoke those years ago, trying to draw breath in vain.

When he finally managed to draw a deep breath over the lump in his throat, when it felt like his lungs expanded instead of uselessly clenching around carbon dioxide and the imagined scent of burning flesh, he tensed all over again. Just a little too late. He cursed and drew his legs up to his chest, his right arm wrapped around them, fingers twisting in denim. His left had started to go numb from being pressed into the corner of a box for so long, but he had a new problem to deal with.

“It’ll be easier to breathe if you straighten out,” Anthony suggested kindly. He yawned a little and just waited when Duane’s eyes darted over to him for a second before closing again. The older man shook his head slightly, drawing a staggered breath.

“Can’t,” he managed. His thighs were warm and wet and he wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come – all dried up in the thick black smoke that stormed by behind his eyes.

“Alright,” was all Anthony said, sitting there with his elbows on his knees, cheeks resting in his hands.

Duane was unaware of how much time had passed, but he did manage to get his breathing under control. He sighed heavily and let his forehead hit one of his knees just a little too hard. “Christ, I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Do you remember what I said about apologizing for things that aren’t your fault?” Anthony asked, but he didn’t sound irritated. Duane pulled his head from his knees, still refusing to uncurl himself from his position pressed against the boxes. The fingers of his left hand were numb when he tried to wiggle them. He looked over at the blonde. He didn’t look upset, just tired, maybe a little concerned, but the yawn offset that.

“It is my fault,” Duane growled. He couldn’t help clenching his teeth and letting a rumble burn up his throat before huffing out heavy sigh through his nose. “I- I pissed on your floor. How is that not my fault?”

“It happens,” Anthony says, not even shrugging. He barely tilts his head.

Duane lets out a bitter little laugh and asks, “you ever pissed yourself at someone else’s house?” Anthony is quiet for a moment, then,

“Yeah.” The string of tension obvious on Duane’s brow seems to relax a bit at the admission, so Anthony tells the story. “I was eleven, I think, maybe twelve. My mother had taken me to her friend’s house, and they had these stairs that separated two rooms. It was, like, two steps that stretched across the break between the rooms, so I sat on one end of them, where I thought I was out of the way, to read. The old broad saw me and apparently wasn’t happy with my choice of seat, so she grabbed me by the arm. She yanked me up so hard she pulled my shoulder out of the socket and I pissed myself. Ruined the dress she’d stuffed me in, ruined their carpet. Which was perfectly fine with me because I hated all of them.” When Anthony says that, Duane chuckles. He sounds a little off, a little crazed, but it’s something.

“Well, I don’t hate you, so it’s not OK.”

“Honey, it happens. I wet the bed so many times after my mastectomy and my ovariohysterectomy just because I didn’t want to get up. I thought I could hold it for a while longer. I spent so much time feeling sorry for myself when I should have just gotten up and showered and moved on with what I could do. But, it is OK. I promise.”

“That your way of telling me I should shower?” Duane asks, a little of his usual cheekiness coming back.

“Well, you did say you like to put cold water on your arm when you get upset. A long, cool shower wouldn’t hurt, if you’re up for it.”

That’s when the tears come, and Anthony just rests a hand on Duane’s bare foot while he sobs into his knees and mutters apologies.

A while later, the blonde helps the older man down to the hall bathroom. He asks if the other needs anything and kisses both of his hands. Duane shakes his head in a negative and ducks his head for a kiss he doesn’t expect, doesn’t think he deserves, but gets it anyway. Anthony says he’ll make milkshakes with what’s left of the ice cream while Duane washes off. He leaves a pair of Alex’s sweatpants on the toilet lid.

Jeremy and Dick are awake, and watch Anthony walk to the kitchen without saying a word. They don’t move more than their eyes.

Anthony stares at his reflection in the microwave for a moment before going out the front door. He smokes on the porch, counting the street lights that are out and trying to determine which neighbors need to cut their lawns to distract himself from the way telling Duane that story had shaken his snow globe of memories. The burn from the curling iron was easily hidden with a couple ringlets. Bruises never saw the light of day from under bangles. When he caught a glimpse of his wrist as he brought the cigarette to his lips, the shadows played the role of phantom injuries long healed. He hissed when ash from his cigarette burned his fingers and stubbed the offending thing out in the potted plant.

He headed in to make the promised shakes.

When Duane emerged from the shower, Jeremy and Dick were still awake. Unlike Anthony, he didn’t notice. He was too exhausted to be hyperaware of his surroundings.

As soon as Anthony’s hands are free, Duane pulls him into a hug. The shorter man lets out a small but happy sigh into the other’s collarbone. “I am so, so sorry,” Duane barely gets out, the sounds muffled by the way his lips are pressed to the top of Anthony’s head.

“It happens,” is all the blonde says.

Duane makes a noise that sounds like an aborted sob and bites out, “I’m just warning you now so it’s not a big surprise when it happens soon. I’m gonna fall in love with you, OK?”

“I’d like that.”

They drink their shakes, spooning out the thicker bits, and Anthony goes to get a couple pillows from the attic, sprinkling a cleaning powder on the stain in the process. He throws Duane’s jeans and boxers in the wash after removing his phone and wallet and checking the pockets for anything. He returns to the kitchen, pillows under one arm, Duane’s things in his other hand. The dark skinned man groans when he takes his phone and wallet and looks at the device to find that it’s not even five in the morning. He scrubs a hand over his face, but sits up straight and scoffs when Anthony throws one of the pillows at him. He suggests they curl up on the kitchen floor, since it’s the coolest place in the house because of the tile. At some point, he’d changed into a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt and makes a startled noise at just how cold the tile actually is when he lays on the floor. Duane can’t believe his luck and drops to the floor with the other.

They spend a few minutes trading soft, lazy kisses before drifting off to sleep.

Anthony wakes to socked toes poking him in the ribs and the smell of sausage. He cracks an eye open irritably to see Jeremy grinning down at him. When he sits up, the boy walks off to take a seat at the table, tearing into a salad topped with bacon bits.

“Who has a salad for breakfast?” Chelsea complains, moving around the blonde lump on the floor to get herself a cup of coffee.

Alex helps Anthony to his feet and to a chair, steals a quick kiss when he thinks no one is looking and says, to the whole, crowded kitchen, “we should go to the aquarium today.”

There once was a time where something not planned a few weeks in advance would make Alex panic. He’d fidget his way through the motions, pretending to enjoy it when he would later admit to being really torn up inside about something like not making the lunch he’d planned to make. But, over the nine years he and Anthony had been together, he’d learned to be OK with a little spontaneity – as long as Anthony or Chelsea was there to keep him feeling normal. Occasionally, he’d even suggest something. Like today.

“That sounds awesome,” Jeremy says.

“Yeah!” is the excited response from Con-El and Dick.

There’s a long moment as Anthony considers it. The “that actually sounds really nice” from Duane settles it, much to Chelsea’s vexation. The older man seems alright this morning. Maybe a little reserved, but Anthony knows the feeling of shame that comes after freaking out on someone.

Deciding who is going to ride in which car is what takes the longest out of getting ready. They talk about it while they eat, only then determining who will drive. They argue about who should ride in which car while they get dressed, do their hair, pack their clothes for the ones who are leaving that day.

Anthony and Alex wind up driving. Jeremy playfully teases Alex for winding up with a carful of girls, but the older man seems happy about it, especially when Anthony jokingly calls Alex his wife.

It’s a little over an hour to the aquarium, since it’s so far south it’s in Kentucky. But after Alex takes care of the entry fees, grumbling at the hands holding cash out at him that he doesn’t want their ‘damn money,’ the eight of them wind through the exhibits holding hands. They would have been in a row from oldest to youngest if Anthony and Alex switched places and Dick and Con-El had been willing to part. No one says anything, or really even looks at them funny and Duane is amazed. They all seem like one big, happy, fucked up family. The air is cool in the tunnels under millions of gallons of water and colorful aquatic life. All the kids and Alex and even Anthony are amazed by the patterns of fish and other creatures, and even Chelsea reluctantly gets on board with the being awestruck.

Duane can’t remember being happier this soon after having such a bad panic attack that he wet himself. He doesn’t think he’ll tell Dr. Mitchell any of this because she’s already skeptical of what little he’s told her about his relationship with the blonde receptionist.

It’s OK to have secrets, he tells himself and smiles.


	14. Chapter 14

The next few weeks go well. Or, as well as can be expected for the members of the Wright household and those associated with it.

Jeremy’s father stops by once a week, usually on Monday mornings before he goes off on his job searches. He’s found many, many jobs, but none that were more than part time, minimum wage, and certainly not up to par with someone who is HVAC certified and has a degree in electrical engineering. He stays to drain a pot of coffee with Anthony, Alex and Chelsea, and Jeremy tells him about their shenanigans. Like how many shits Anthony flipped when a neighbor’s poodle started tearing up his prized tulips, and how the neighbors keep asking Anthony and Alex about their ‘foster child.’ Mr. Regal thinks Anthony and Alex are married, and that Chelsea is Anthony’s ex-wife who they let stay out of sympathy. No one corrects him, though Chelsea does complain that she doesn’t think she looks that old after he leaves.

“You’re only four years younger than me,” Anthony likes to remind her.

It feels like Dimitri, Dick and Con-El are over more often than not, and even Lyndsay and Amanda start to join them on occasion.

Lyndsay Michaels really doesn’t have any trouble getting permission from her parents to come over to Anthony’s place, to go to the zoo, or bowling, or the aquarium. She might tell them its supplemental summer study with a dozen kids from her class, but that’s neither here nor there.

Jeremy steps up to the plate to play Amanda’s beard, and then, Anthony actually does step into the role of pretending to be the boy’s foster father when the girl’s parents come to meet him. Chelsea plays the ex-wife all too well, and Alex hides in the bedroom, trying not to laugh. Amanda’s parents turn their nose up at Anthony for being divorced, but Jeremy puts on the front of being a good, god-fearing boy and Chelsea dolls him up well enough that the Thompson’s find him acceptable. When they leave, Anthony thinks he should really be behaving better than this, but one look at Amanda’s relieved face makes him forget what he did wrong.

“We make good exes,” Chelsea says and Anthony gives her a playful shove.

Duane never told Dr. Mitchell the whole truth about his last panic attack around someone else. He did, however, tell her that Anthony was at his place when it happened, that he was patient, so sweet. He may have omitted a few things, like the aquarium trip or the kissing on the tiled floor, but he was allowed some secrets, he told himself, and he wanted the woman to know just how good Anthony was for him.

She’s still skeptical. Especially after Duane hits a rough patch and isn’t around for about a week. He texts Anthony, and he’s honest, but he can’t bear to face the little blonde like this. It’s nearing the end of June, though, and a few M-80’s have already startled him into the bathroom. He laughs at himself and wanders out a few minutes later, but he really doesn’t want to be alone through this Fourth. Even more than that, he doesn’t want to be down at the VA with a likely sedated Mary and Joel who will be shivering like its cold out or Henry, who will be even more racist than usual. Duane didn’t want to plaster on fake grins and puff out his chest only to wind up in a dark bathroom every half an hour.

Roderick Kelly was usually everyone’s saving grace at these events. Without him, Duane is sure a handful of those in attendance would have gone home and seriously hurt or killed themselves in their panic over the various fireworks popping off nearby. The man had done pyrotechnics before enlisting, his family holding their own fireworks show every year. He carefully explained the subtle differences in the sounds and gave advice on ways to cope with the sudden stress. The clinic only stays open until midnight that night every year, even though the shrinks had to know that the Independence Day activities went on until well after three in the morning. Duane figured that was exactly why they closed at midnight – the less damaged people wanted to participate in the festivities. He tried not to get angry at the thought, scolded himself for it. He sits on his couch, his rear only making the cushion dent more obvious, running one hand over his face while holding his phone in the other. He shouldn’t be mad over people wanting to have a life, he tells himself. He wants to text Anthony, but he’s been texting Mary on and off for the past few hours. They aren’t really saying anything, just sending each other bad jokes and stupid puns.

Eventually, he works up the courage to text Anthony, but all he sends is a,

Hey

After a few minutes of nothing, he starts to berate himself. Thinking he shouldn’t have bothered the other. He considers getting a hard lemonade, but there are only a few left and he doesn’t want to get up from the couch, anyway. He’s almost afraid to look when Anthony texts back, but his thumb swipes the screen open before he even has the thought that not looking yet is an option.

Hey, yourself. :)

Can u come over? Duane asks, hitting send before his brain catches up with his fingers. He starts typing an apology for the suddenness of the question, trying in vain to explain himself, but he stops when he gets another message.

Sure. Now?

It doesn’t have 2 b right now, Duane sends back, thankful that they’re not actually talking because he knows he’d be stuttering worse than he did in third grade. The steady stream of please, please, please running under everything else in his mind isn’t helping matters.

I’ll be there in half an hour. Should I bring anything?

Wine coolers? :P

Make that forty-five minutes. :P

Duane manages a smile and to pry his ass from the couch after that. He gets one of his hard lemonades from the refrigerator and sips it while he waits.

He’s been made fun of for his choice of drinks while in a public bar before. He doesn’t consider himself a particularly imposing or scary man, but he’s almost six feet and has all sorts of talents the average man doesn’t – like actually being able to shatter a glass bottle with only his hand and a little effort. The man who’d tried to start shit had gone pale, doe-eyed, and fled. The stitches had been worth it. He didn’t think a hard cider or lemonade made him any less masculine than a Mountain Dew would. He drank for taste, not for alcohol content, but a half-dozen wine coolers gave him a pleasantly warm sensation in his belly and was safe. He could drink all night and just feel like he had butterflies and not have to worry about losing his mind like others in bars seemed to do.

He’s about to go sit out on the porch to wait when there’s a knock at the door. He yelps in pain when he kicks the table, steadies his drink even though there’s nothing left in it and laughs before he goes to answer it.

“Hey,” he says, something warm blossoming in his chest when Anthony looks up at him. The little blonde can’t be more than five and a half feet, he thinks with a fond smile. It fades when Anthony raises a brow at him. He holds out one of those twelve-bottle sampler packs, and has a plastic bag on his arm. “Uh, right,” Duane says, taking the box. They head to the kitchen and sit at the table like normal people.

Duane can’t help but smile when Anthony starts laying out Chinese takeout on the table. General Tso’s chicken, rice, dumplings, three packs of crab rangoons and a litany of sauces. “Sorry if it’s not to your liking, but I was hungry,” the blonde says.

“This is right up my alley,” Duane says, getting two forks from a tiny drawer. “What flavor do you want?” he asks when he turns back to the refrigerator to get himself another drink.

“Surprise me,” Anthony says, already picking the hard edges off of a crab puff.

They steal food from the cartons in front of each other, playfully yanking plastic and cardboard containers, battling with forks, dribbling bits of various sauces on the old table. It’s pleasant, and Duane manages to only startle once at the sound of an M-80 going off in the distance. Anthony flinched, too, not expecting the sound. They laugh, even if Duane’s has a bit of a rueful edge.

They grab a couple more wine coolers each, after lunch, and curl up on the couch for a bit. The AC is running full blast, so it’s comfortable enough just to sit there with their thighs pressed together and talk about sports. Duane looks for a moment to bring up what he wants to ask, but can’t find one.

“What’s on your mind?” Anthony asks, giving him the opening like the clever little bastard he is.

“What’re you doing for the Fourth?” Duane asks, hoping his apprehension doesn’t seep into his voice.

“I was gonna help out at the clinic, then go home and have some of that cheese cake Alex insists on making every year. Maybe curl up on the couch with a book while waiting for him to come in from the roof.”

“The roof?” Duane asks, a brow arched.

“If it isn’t music or sports, he doesn’t like loud sounds, so he watches the fireworks from our roof. They’re far enough away that we barely hear anything.” Anthony then makes a face. “Maybe I should go up there with him this year, though. I wouldn’t put it past the kids down the street to try setting off some of their own fireworks.” Duane opens his mouth to say something in response, anything, if the words would come, but Anthony’s face relaxes a little and he asks, “wanna come? Chelsea is gonna take the kids to see a live show, so they probably won’t be back until, like, three.”

“I’d love to,” Duane says. He leans heavily on Anthony and the blonde lets him.

Duane comes with him to the clinic that night, even though it’s a Tuesday. They just want to spend a little more time together. Anthony is so glad he came when a familiar face walks in the door.

Duane notices how Anthony goes pale, how his hands still their fidgeting, how his pupils dilate. He notices how Anthony’s nostrils flare as he watches the gait of the man who walked in the door. When the burly man stands before the desk, there’s a big grin on his slightly chubby face.

“Toni!” he says, excitedly. “How have you been, sweetheart? It’s been forever! To think I’d find you here of all places.”

There’s a brief moment of panic that flashes in blue eyes that are almost gray with how much they’re hazed over before Anthony chokes out, “I’m sorry, sir, but you must have me confused with someone else.”

“Don’t be silly,” the man says, and splays his hands over his chest before he continues, “Chris Masters. We went to school together. We even dated for a couple years. Always knew you were a dyke, though. Look at you. God, you really look like a man. Bet the lesbians run off screaming, huh?”

Duane’s nails dig into his thighs with the effort to keep himself still. He thinks he might be tearing his jeans, but he doesn’t really care. There’s such a burning anger that he thinks he might choke on it if he doesn’t move, that his lungs might turn to ash if he doesn’t punch this six foot four asshole, and the pain is grounding.

But Anthony, thankfully Duane thinks, has the situation under control, because the blonde gives the stranger his best confused look. “I find it hard to believe that someone like you went to a Catholic school. What did you say your name was again? Masters? I don’t think we had a single Masters at Carroll. I see you have a five thirty with Dr. Morris, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” the man says, a little deflated. “You’ll remember me one of these days, kid.”

Anthony puts on his best aloof front until the man is called back ten minutes later. As soon as the heavy wooden door is closed behind them, the little blonde bolts for the bathroom.


	15. Chapter 15

Duane kicked over his chair in his haste to chase after Anthony, but the bathroom door slammed shut in his face. Roderick and his companion, some young-ish woman with her hair up in a sloppy, off-center ponytail, looked a bit startled. Thankfully they were the only ones milling about the place. Duane rested his hands on the bathroom door, careful not to slam them into it. He didn’t want to startle Anthony. Roderick and his companion shared concerned looks and quiet words before standing to approach Duane cautiously.

After some coaxing, the young woman, who’d introduced herself as Claire, managed to get Duane away from the door. Roderick leaned against the doorframe and knocked lightly with his hand turned backward.

“Just a minute!” Anthony called from the other side.

“No rush,” Roderick said. He waited a beat before saying, “you know, it’s OK not to be OK.” When Anthony flung open the door a few seconds later, Roderick caught it before it could slam back against the wall.

“I’m fine,” Anthony lied, his fake smile stretched thin. “Just really had to go.”

“Yeah? And I’m the queen of England,” Roderick started. Duane was quick to his feet from where Claire had seated him, but she yanked him back down by his jeans. She was surprisingly strong for such a small, summer-ready thing in her little spaghetti straps and short shorts. “You don’t have to tell me what happened between you and that guy, but maybe you should take the night off.” He made a face before adding, “and find someone you can talk to about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” the blonde answered, his walk stiff as he made his way back to his seat. Roderick stroked his beard for a moment, looking off to Claire, who could only shrug in response. The vet took the seat Duane vacated when the scarred man hustled over to Anthony.

“What was that?” he asked, perching himself on the desk.

“Tell you later,” Anthony bit out. Duane decided to stick close for a while.

When the guy who’d startled Anthony came out nearly an hour later, he strode up to the desk and looked Duane up and down, his eyes lingering on the scars far too long before smirking and turning to Anthony.

“Like ‘em burnt, eh? I’m just surprised you like dick at all.” Duane crossed his arms in response, doing nothing to hide the way he was glaring at the man. Even Roderick, who was generally even more easy-going than Duane pretended to be, looked miffed. Chris turned to Duane and looked him up and down once more. “You know, it’s acceptable to be with a male man these days. You don’t have to get some fake.”

“Look, man,” Duane starts and Anthony fights back a sigh, “I’m not buyin’ what you’re sellin’. Not really into the whole prostitute thing.” Anthony scoffs, not having expected something like that. “Plus, I have violent outbursts, so I might just end up punching you in the fucking face if you don’t stop pissing me off,” which is a lie, but one that all current regulars kind of appreciate.

“Violent outbursts, eh? Good thing she likes that.” Anthony’s eyes narrow in his version of a wince, and he opens his mouth to say something when Claire interrupts,

“Excuse me, but how the fuck would you know what I’m into?”

“I didn’t mean you, sweetie,” Chris says, rolling his eyes.

“I’m the only girl here, so it stands to reason that you were talking about me,” she says, standing up. She doesn’t even come up to the middle of this guy’s chest, but she comes at him like he’s a small child that just broke something important, poking him in the chest. “I don’t appreciate people talking about my sex life like I’m not even here. That’s a symptom of being a grade-A jerk. Why don’t you just schedule your next appointment and leave, buddy?”

Anthony is so thankful for these people when Chris turns to him with an unimpressed look and says, simply, “same time, same day next week.” Once it’s in the books and Claire is sitting next to Roderick, her arms folded across her small chest, Chris turns to leave. “I wish you wouldn’t be such a bitch about this, Toni,” he says before he pushes the door open.

The clinic is eerily silent until Anthony heaves a heavy sigh and lets his head hit the table with a loud thunk. When leaving that evening, the blonde keeps looking over his shoulders. There’s still a little light just after nine, but the shadows are long enough that he’s jumpy. Duane had hopped a ride with Anthony, and the blonde seemed hesitant to get back in his own car.

“Want me to check it?” Duane offers and Anthony jumps a little.

“What? No. It’s nothing like that. I-” he huffs out a quiet curse and unlocks the car. Once he and Duane are both inside, he continues, “I just don’t want to go back to your house right away in case that asshole decides to follow me.” Duane’s eyes widen a fraction.

“Is that something he used to do?” Anthony hums an affirmative in response. “Well,” Duane starts, but it trails off when Anthony lights a cigarette. He offers Duane one and he takes it, glad for the distraction. “Bowling alley’s still open for another few hours,” he suggests. Anthony chuckles and his expression softens just a bit.

They wind up driving around for a while. They stop and clean out a Speedway of all the sandwiches under their heat lamps and probably a good quarter of their bottles of Mountain Dew. Anthony even picked up a diet for Jeremy. They took a strange route back to Anthony’s place, the blonde’s phone in Duane’s hand as he rattles off the back roads directions.

When they get to the street, Anthony drives past his house, parks in the lot of a house that was recently vacated, but had yet to put up a for sale sign. When they got out and grabbed the bags, Anthony motioned for Duane to follow him. He follows the blonde around to the back of the empty house, and they traverse three yards until they get to Anthony’s back door. While Anthony is unlocking it, Duane says,

“Maybe instead of military, you were a spy.”

Anthony scoffs.

“You givin’ our secrets to the Russians, babe?” Duane jokes.

“Too young and too gay to be a Russian spy,” Anthony says when he finally gets the door open.

“Oh shit,” Chelsea says when they reach the kitchen. “We figured you’d stayed at his place.”

“No, I-” and they can tell that he doesn’t want to talk about it. Jeremy takes the bags from his hand Chelsea the ones from Duane’s. They start laying out the food while Anthony forces out, “ran into someone I used to know. Where’s Alex?”

“In the shower,” Chelsea answers. “Mrs. Tucker’s dog got to him a little bit ago,” she clarifies when Anthony raises a brow.

“Evil little thing,” Anthony says before walking off.

He joins Alex in the shower.

“They’re gonna be in there a while,” Chelsea says, reheating a few of the sandwiches. “I know that look. What got him spooked?”

“Some guy,” Duane answers, “Chris Masters.” Chelsea lets out a low whistle that almost sounds like a warning when Jeremy’s diet Dew bottle hisses open. “Who is this guy?”

Chelsea looks at Jeremy. “Hey, can you-”

“Yeah, no,” he interrupts. “I wanna know what’s wrong with Anthony,” the boy says.

“You have to eat a chicken sandwich and keep your mouth shut if I tell you,” she says, throwing one of the recently reheated sandwiches in front of him.

“Fine,” he says defiantly, unwrapping it slowly while he looks at Chelsea for her to continue.

After he swallows a bite, Chelsea says, “as far as I know, they dated in high school. He wasn’t a very good person. Drank a lot, prone to violent outbursts.”

“In high school?” Jeremy asked around a third reluctant bite.

“Yeah,” she answered. “Rich family. Supplied him with alcohol, swept any bad shit he did under the rug. He didn’t tell me much. Just said it toughened him up a lot. He- Anthony said that it gave him a tolerance for drugs and alcohol that he almost wished he didn’t have, whatever that means.”

Duane leaned back in the wooden chair, tipping the front legs off the ground while crossing his arms over his chest. “The guy was a dick,” he says, and Jeremy looks over. Chelsea raises a brow. “He kept calling Anthony a girl and made fun of my scars.” His hands go to his arms then, because he didn’t even think to grab a long sleeved shirt after leaving the clinic. He never wore one there, wanting to seem more OK with them than he actually was. “Or, it may have been that I’m black, but I’m pretty sure he meant my scars.”

“What now?” Chelsea asked with a raised brow, her flask halfway to the rim of the bottle of soda she’d been working on.

“He said, ‘you like ‘em burnt,’ or something like that.”

She hummed in thought while filling the bottle up with whatever was in the flask. Her brow was stitched in concern. The tension in the room didn’t entirely dissipate when they heard Alex’s moaning drifting down the hall.

“Oh, geez,” Jeremy said, pulling the hood of his sweater up to hide his face. Duane blushes and looks off into the corner of the room, his face a mix between a scowl and disturbance.  
“Yeah, they’re going to do that for a while,” Chelsea says. “It makes Anthony feel better after he’s had a bad day.”

“Will he be up to talking later?” Duane asks.

“Probably not for a few hours. If you try, he’ll try to shut you up with kisses. Hell, he’s tried to shut me up with kisses a few times and he’s queer as folk. We just have to wait it out. He comes around pretty fast, though, because that’s just the kind of guy he is,” Chelsea says. She sighs, long and heavy. “Well, since all we can do is wait, we might as well eat this food. Save a couple chicken for Anthony and a couple burgers for Alex.”

“Do I have to finish this?” Jeremy asks, pushing forward a half-eaten sandwich. “You didn’t give me very much information.”

“Yes. Finish it, you twig,” Duane finishes before Chelsea can say the exact same thing. Jeremy huffs indignantly.

A couple hours pass before Alex wanders out and stuffs a sandwich in his face while putting the rest of the food away. He chugs half a soda before throwing it in the ‘fridge, too. Everyone stares at him expectantly. After an agonizing moment, he gets it and is flooded with relief.

“He’s pretty upset,” Alex explains.

“He up for talkin’?” Duane asks.

“No,” Alex says, shifting from foot to foot, looking eager to get back to his bedroom. “But he’s probably up for cuddling.” He hadn’t meant the offer for everyone, but they followed him anyway.

Anthony lay on the bed looking more than half asleep. Alex climbs in with him, and Duane takes a knee at the other side of the bed.

“You wanna be snuggled?” he asks, breath ruffling Anthony’s hair. The blonde grunts out a chuckle.

“Get in here,” he says, taking one hand from Alex’s shirt to make a grabbing gesture at Duane.

Chelsea asks Jeremy if he wants to go play a game, and he responds with, “I wanted to join in the cuddle puddle, but there’s no room.” He sounds bitter and a bit hurt, so Chelsea puts her arm around his shoulders and steers him in the direction of the living room..

Anthony mutters, “we need a bigger bed,” into Alex’s chest. He’s a bit stiff with someone who may as well be a stranger in his bed, but Alex values Anthony’s comfort over his at the moment, and figures he can move to the couch after Anthony is asleep.

“We need to have him talk about this before next Monday,” Duane says.

“In the morning, after breakfast,” Alex says by way of agreement.


	16. Chapter 16

“Doors and windows are all locked,” Chelsea announced over the rim of a tan cup when Alex wandered in to breakfast in the morning. Duane followed behind him, looking groggy. The taller man rubbed at his eyes.

“Thanks,” Anthony said, making himself a cup of coffee like nothing had happened.

When Duane stepped up to offer Alex a hand with breakfast, he realized the slender man was taller than him. It came as a bit of a shock with how much the man with the frosty blue tipped hair slouched. Alex handed him a loaf of bread and a knife with a smile. He swiped the butter from the counter and they worked in silence for several long minutes.

“So, what’s the plan?” Chelsea asked. She wanted to get this out of the way before Jeremy woke up.

“Let me eat first,” Anthony said, sending a halfhearted glare her way.

“As much as I’d like to do that, you’re going to go all mama bear over Jeremy and clam up when he comes out, so fuckin’ spill,” Chelsea said, fighting with her bangs in her reflection in her coffee.

“There is no plan,” Anthony says, sitting his cup down just a little too hard. “I got a little spooked last night, that’s all.”

“And that’s why I had to move your car back into the driveway last night after you went to sleep,” she said, taking the keys from her pocket. She tossed them on the table and everyone but her flinched when they jangled on the wood surface. “You always have plans,” she grumbled.

“Avoiding these things usually works well enough,” Anthony started, giving Alex a smile and a kiss on the cheek when he put a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. “But, if you want a real plan, I can just give the guy a fake name and keep pretending I don’t know him.”

“I’d have to text Mary and have her spread the word. What’s your name going to be when that asshole is around?” Duane asked, phone already out of his pocket. Anthony was silent for a long moment, considering his options. He really hoped the military had evened the guy out, but he doubted it. He should probably look up names from the graduating class of 03 for Carroll, but he didn’t think Chris would go that far, to look him up.

“Maybe a fake Facebook page,” he muttered and Duane’s eyes widened a fraction.

“It’s not that serious, is it?” he asked, his voice tinged with wonder and maybe a bit of fear.

“What? No. I’m just paranoid. Uh,” he trailed off for a minute and stuffed his mouth with a large forkful of eggs to offset the silence. “Greg Sanders,” he said with a little shrug. It was the first thing that came to mind.

“I don’t see why you can’t tell someone up there and have them kick him out,” Chelsea complained. Duane looked to be considering it and Alex stared at his plate, fork in hand.

“They can’t turn away someone who needs help, even if they are an asshole,” Anthony said with a shake of his head. “Maybe that help will make him less of one,” he said more to himself than anyone else.

“Well,” Duane said, sitting his phone down, “Mary knows to call you Greg now, and is spreading the word to Henry, Roderick and anyone else who talks to you on a regular basis. I told her Chris Masters isn’t on that list, and she wants to know why, but I’ll leave that up to you if you want to tell her or not.”

“Just tell her the truth. Some asshole ex won’t leave me alone, so I’m pretending to be someone else.” Anthony shrugs, but it’s forced. “It’s not that big of a deal. I’m fine.”

“That has yet to be seen,” Chelsea complains and it earns her a weak glare.

“I’m fine,” Anthony reiterates, and that’s the end of that.

That is, until he gets to the clinic later that night. He found himself tasked with calling Chris Masters to tell him he needs to reschedule, as his next appointment had been mistakenly scheduled on a holiday.

“Yeah, Masters speaking,” is how the man answers the phone.

“Hello, Mr. Masters. This is Greg Sanders from the clinic. I’m calling to inform you that there’s been a clerical error and we’ve accidentally scheduled your next appointment with-”

“Yeah, on the Fourth, I know, Toni. When are you rescheduling me to?” he asks, sounds exasperated.

Anthony grits his teeth. “When would work for you?”

“Tuesday, then.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but that day is fully booked.”

“Fuck, the day after that, then. Just pick one and tell me when it is. As long as it’s after five.”

“How does five-thirty on Wednesday work?”

“Fine,” he said and hung up.

Anthony takes a deep breath and lets his head drop to the table as soon as the receiver was on the hook. The Torres twins stared at him with blank expressions.

He hides in his study that night, texting Duane. The older man sends him a few of Mary’s puns that manage to make the blonde smile. He texts Alex, but gets a response that reads, Don’t text me when we’re in the same house unless it’s an emergency. Then, he gets a text from a number he doesn’t recognize. All it says is,

Who is this Masters guy?

Instead of panicking, Anthony asks,

Who is this?

It’s Mary Clark, numbnuts.

Call me. And she does, seconds later. “Hello?” Anthony asks timidly, bringing his knees up to his chest before leaning back against one of the beanbag chairs.

“Yeah, I’m calling to prove it’s me,” she says. “Now spill. Roderick said you flipped the fuck out.” Anthony rolls his eyes.

“I did not flip out,” he defends.

“Roddy said you did, and I’m inclined to believe him. Said you ran to the bathroom and everything. Now you’re wanting us to call you Greg when this guy is around? Who is he?” There’s a short pause before she adds, “should I kill him?” Anthony snorts at this, stretching out his legs to get comfortable. There’s something oddly relaxing and amusing about Mary mother hen-ing.

“No, don’t kill him. He’s- ah, he’s seen combat like everyone else. He deserves a shrink, too.”

“Not from the way I hear it. Guy’s a combat medic, probably never held a gun.”

“You know as well as I do that medical personnel are armed.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she says a bit hesitantly. She regains her confidence when she says, “my crew never interacted with medics. We never got close to the action. I was stationed here for most of my career. I mean, not here here, but on U.S. soil. Like, they only took me over there for my engineering skills and, my god, I wish I hadn’t gone. What I was doing wasn’t any better, but it was less real.” Her words trend toward airy for a moment before she lets out an angry huff. “This isn’t about me, it’s about you and your stupid jackass field medic. What’s his deal?”

“I don’t mind if you talk about your service, Mary. No one has to know.” She gives an irritated huff, so he changes the subject, “he’s my ex.”

There’s a short silence before she says, “go on.”

“That’s it. He’s just an asshole that I don’t want to deal with, so I pretended not to know him,” he says on a heavy breath. He can hear her shifting around, imagining her crossing her arms.

“That can’t be all. With the way you reacted, with the things I was told he said.” There’s another silence before more shifting, a crack and a hiss from something carbonated in a can. “Now tell me exactly what happened when you dated this guy or, so help me god, I will wring your address out of Duane and I will come down there and make you talk.”

“I don’t doubt that you would,” Anthony says with a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. Fuck,” and Mary scoffs at his curse. “You know I’m a tranny, right?”

“Uh, yeah. We all do. No one gives a shit.” It takes about half a second for the pieces to click into place for Mary. “Oh. You dated this guy before you came out,” she says. “So, then, what’s this about him stalking you?”

“God dammit, Duane,” Anthony says and Mary chuckles.

“I’ll deal with him, you tell me what happened.”

“What’s there to tell? He just followed me places.”

“There is a lot to tell when you’re dealing with a stalker,” she says like they’re discussing the weather. “When, where, and most importantly, why.”

“It was a long time ago, Mary,” and he’s rubbing his temples, phone held up by his shoulder. “He was just butthurt about me being a man. He thought we were going to have a family – get married, have kids, all that shit.” She makes a noise like that’s a horrendous thought and Anthony manages a small laugh. “My mom was on his side for the longest time, too, but he got tired of following me about a year or so after we broke up. He was banned from campus, so it got kind of difficult for him. I’m sure he’s over it and just wanted to shoot the shit about the ‘good ol’ days,’ and I just overreacted.”

“The way Duane tells it, you thought the guy was gonna rig your car to explode.”

“He wouldn’t do something like that. I’m just paranoid. That’s all. I overreacted and wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Maybe, but I’m going to be keeping an eye on the guy. I hear he’s going to be in group with me ‘n’ Henry, so I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

“Aren’t you sworn to secrecy on that?” and Mary makes an amused ‘pfft’ noise in response.

“Like I give a shit,” she says. “Take care of yourself so I don’t have to kick Duane’s ass into doing it for you,” and with that, she hangs up.

“What am I supposed to do with you people?” Anthony asks, just staring at his phone for a minute.

“Talking to us might be nice,” he hears from the direction of the stairs. He turns his head to find Jeremy sitting there, looking expectantly at him. “But, if that’s no good, you could always come get your ass kicked at Street Fighter.” He laughs at the dumb look at the blonde’s face.

“Excuse me, it would be you who gets their ass kicked,” he says, hand on his chest in mock indignation.

“Wanna put your money where your mouth is?”


	17. Chapter 17

“Do you want to stay at my house and hang out with the others while I’m at the clinic on Monday?” Anthony asks late Wednesday morning when he’s at Duane’s house. They’re sitting on the porch, having what remains of the wine coolers.

“I was planning on coming to the event. Thought you could use the company in case that Masters guy was there,” Duane says, knocking his knee against Anthony’s. They’re sitting in ratty old lawn chairs that have seen better days.

Anthony waves a hand dismissively. He’s back to being virtually expressionless, and Duane can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not. “Mary and Roderick will be there, so I’ll be fine.” He looks over at Duane, who is wearing a long sleeved shirt. “Aren’t you hot in that?” For a second, Duane grins.

“Way to change the subject,” he says with a pointed raise of his brows. His happy expression fades to an awkward one and his right hand comes up to his left arm. “Rough day,” he says simply.

“Let’s go inside,” Anthony says, taking both of their drinks before the other can say anything. He follows the blonde into his own house. Anthony sits the bottles on the coffee table and turns on the AC, letting it blow his awkwardly long hair out of his face. He makes a pleased sound that has Duane looking away. “God, I’m almost tempted to take my shirt off. Eighty-eight degrees, fuck me bloody,” he complains.

“Why don’t you?” Duane asks, amused by the terms the other had used. Anthony looks at him for a long moment, expression unreadable.

“I will if you do,” is all he says.

Duane stammers for a moment before forcing out, “what are we, twelve?” Anthony shrugs, picks up his bottle and finishes it off.

“Summer heat can really get to a guy,” and he licks his lips. Duane scoffs.

“Fine,” he says, taking ahold of one of his sleeves to pull his shirt off. Anthony does the same, though he grabs his shirt from the back of his neck. When they throw their shirts aside, they take one look at each other and start laughing. For reasons they couldn’t explain to an onlooker, the fact that they both had on undershirts was highly amusing. “You cheat. I think you just wanted to look at my scars some more,” Duane says, drawing in close to Anthony, who gives a hum of approval when Duane’s arms wind around him and pull him flush against the larger body.

“Can you blame me?” the blonde asks, tracing his fingers up Duane’s left arm. “Your arms are gorgeous.”

“Mm, you’ve got some arms on you, too,” Duane says, making an appreciative noise at the way Anthony flexed in his grip. “Wanna see what you’ve got goin’ on under here,” he says, slipping his fingers under the hem of Anthony’s undershirt.

“You might not like it,” Anthony warns.

“As long as you’re not a couple of dogs in a human suit, I promise I’ll like it,” Duane jokes lightly as he lets Anthony pull away.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Anthony whispers, coyly lifting the edge of his shirt.

“Alright,” Duane says, throat dry.

Anthony peels off his shirt and lets it drop to the couch. Duane had imagined Anthony would treat his clothes better than that, but that thought flies out the window when he gets a look at the little blonde without a top. He’s got something of a six pack, even if it just barely shows under the thin layer of summertime snack-weight he’s been putting on. There’s a little hair here and there, around his navel, between his pecs, but it’s the scar that draws Duane’s attention. That’s what he’d meant when he’d said that, he thinks, and itches to trace the thick line that consumes a small portion of the other’s right pec. He’s allowed to run his thumb over it for a few seconds before Anthony breathlessly says,

“Your turn.”

Duane forgets himself for a moment and brings his gaze up to amused blue eyes. “Right,” he says, looking just the smallest bit ashamed. He pulls off his shirt and holds it in front of himself for a few seconds before letting it drop to the floor between his feet.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Anthony breathes, then laughs. “Sorry, I guess most guys don’t like being called beautiful, huh?” and he bites his lip for a second before laughing again. He gasps when Duane’s hands are on him again.

“Sorry,” the larger man whispers. “I can’t not,” he bites out, thumbing the scar again.

“It’s from my mastectomy, kinda,” Anthony explains while he holds onto Duane’s biceps. “There’s words in it if you look closer.” When Duane drops to his knees, Anthony lets out something embarrassingly close to a whimper.

“Never forget,” Duane reads before pressing his left forefinger into the scar to feel the dips in the words. “It’s backwards. Did you do this yourself?”

“No, I got it done. Had to go out of town to find a scarification place, though.” Anthony holds on to Duane’s elbows while the other feels him up.

“Help me understand,” Duane says, stopping to press his cheek into Anthony’s stomach, “why you’d want to remember that. All I want to do is forget my past,” and just like that, the hot moment that had been building dissipated, blew away like smoke. Anthony brings his hands up to the back of Duane’s head and drags his nails through the other’s short hair.

“I got it so I’d never forget all the work I did to get where I am today,” there’s a pause before he adds, “and I don’t just mean transitioning. I mean getting my degrees and my teaching license, and all of the other shit I had to get over to have the life I wanted.” When Duane sits back on his haunches, Anthony lowers himself to his knees. He takes Duane’s face in his hands. “I’m not honest about this very often because I can’t afford to be,” he says, and Duane’s brow scrunches together. Anthony soothes it with a kiss before he continues, “I still have some problems that I really won’t admit to. Or, that I can’t admit to, I should say. Because if I’m anything less than a model citizen, if I have out of place emotions or, god forbid, a mental illness, it’ll be attributed to the fact that I’m a tranny. Or, I guess, that’ll be credited to mental illness.”

“Ain’t nobody important thinks that,” Duane says, pulling Anthony to him once more.

“I know, but,” and there’s a pause, a frown, “I work with kids in my day job. If I mess up even the slightest bit, well, it’s all over but the cryin’.” Duane opens his mouth to say something, but Anthony puts his thumbs over the older man’s lips. “So, if I say I’m OK, even if I’m not, just play along. Humor me until we’re alone. Then you can badger me all you want. I might even tell you the truth.”

“I don’t want to badger you,” Duane says, leaning back against the couch, pulling Anthony with him. The blonde lets out a startled yelp, but laughs when he winds up in the other’s lap. “I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy, Duane. Oh, god, am I happy,” Anthony says, resting his head on Duane’s scarred shoulder. “I’ve got two incredibly sweet, incredibly hot boyfriends, and a sort-of girlfriend who is annoying as hell but takes care of me nonetheless,” he trails off, turning a smile into the skin. He presses a kiss there. Then another, and another, and soon he’s trailing up the neck that Duane can’t believe he’s tilting his head to expose. The hot moment is back and Anthony grins against a sensitive spot just behind the man’s ear. “You haven’t pressured me for anything and that’s,” a soft sigh into his ear makes Duane shake, “that’s nice.”

“I like the closeness,” Duane admits, turning his head to press a kiss to Anthony’s cheek. “I’ve been afraid of getting too close to people since I got back. I know it sounds so stupid,” he says, pausing to drag his teeth over Anthony’s shoulder when he tries to protest, “like, I- I wanted someone who I could just be close to, who wouldn’t expect shit because I can’t give shit. It’s not that bad most days,” a kiss here, a kiss there, “but, like, some days it’s so bad that I couldn’t even commit to a contract with a cable company, much less love someone.” He gives Anthony a gentle push back until the younger man is resting on his knees. “I don’t want you to think I don’t love you because I do. Fuck, I fell so hard I think I left a dent,” and they both snicker, “but, I need to be honest here. I think you being with Alex too has something to do with it. It feels,” and he tries to decide what to call it while running his palms up Anthony’s chest. “Safe,” he decides. “Like I’m not gonna lose you if I do somethin’ you don’t like, or I don’t wanna fuck just yet, or I don’t like a certain position or somethin’.”

“What positions don’t you like?” Anthony teases.

“Never been a fan of reverse cowgirl,” Duane snarks back. “I understand where you’re comin’ from, though, with the puttin’ on a brave front and all. Never feels right, being thanked for my service. They don’t know,” he stresses the last word. “People stare at my scars, look like kicked puppies. You’re the first person who looked at ‘em like you wanted to bite ‘em while you were ridin’ my dick, though.” Duane smirks and Anthony pouts.

“Was I that obvious?” he asks.

“Oh yeah,” Duane says and laughs. He lets his head fall back against one of the loveseat’s cushions. “It was nice, though. I was so fucking scared to flirt with you. Man, like,” and his hands tighten on Anthony’s sides, “I thought you’d turn tail and run the second I opened my mouth. I know you had to’ve seen a lot of basket cases come in through there and I kept thinking you’d be thinkin’ ‘ah, shit. Ain’t nobody got time for that.’ I can’t tell you – like, I can’t put into words how fucking relieved I was that you were already in a stable, open relationship.” He laughs then, but it’s a bit off. “If my mom were alive to see how my life has turned out, she’d shit bricks. I never thought I’d be relieved that someone I loved so much was dead, but she don’t need to her baby boy torn up by war, or her little girl sellin’ drugs to keep her expensive-assed apartment out in Hollywood. At least she’s not using, to my knowledge. Ah,” he sighs out, “wonder how she’d react to me not even tryin’ to get the hot little piece in my lap in bed yet.” He makes a face, his lips drawn up like he’s thinking about it. “She’d probably try to harass me into a more normal relationship, though. Different generation. You know how it is.”

“It’s not for everyone,” Anthony says, once more raking his nails through Duane’s hair. The man sighs softly at the contact, pushing his head into it. “You have to deal with jealousy pretty well.”

“Jealousy ain’t even on my radar. I’m so fucking glad,” Duane nearly hisses, “that you aren’t alone to deal with my shit.”

“I’m happy to,” Anthony says, taking his phone out of his pocket. He fiddles around with it for a minute.

“Whatcha doin’?” Duane asks, feeling a little lazy from the nails scraping his scalp.

“Setting an alarm. I wanna just lay like this for a while,” Anthony says, tossing his phone aside.

The two stay wrapped up in each other for a long time, letting the outside world pass them by. When the timer goes off, Anthony reluctantly pries himself from the bigger man and helps Duane to his feet.

“I wish I didn’t have to go,” he says by way of apology.

“Yeah, but I think it’s OK this time. I could either use a cold shower or a little time alone with Palmela Anderson, and for the first time in a long time, the second one is soundin’ better than the first.” He gives a sheepish little smile, scratching the back of his head. Anthony snickers and gives a shake of his own head. He puts his shirts back on and his phone back in his pocket. He turns to Duane and leans up to steal a kiss.

“By the way, I love you, too,” he says before slipping out the door.


	18. Chapter 18

Monday morning, Jeremy left to spend a little time with his parents, figuring his mother had had plenty of time to calm down. The family was going to his aunt’s house for a cookout, anyway, and she, according to Jeremy, made the best green bean casserole ever, so Anthony sent the boy off with a ruffle of his hair.

Chelsea went about collecting the rest of the kids, who were happy to get away from their families after lunch. She ran into a bit of a snag when picking up Amanda, but one call to Anthony put the family at ease.

“Sorry,” he’d said into the receiver, and the rustling in the background had been so loud that even Chelsea could hear it, standing a few feet away from Mrs. Thompson, “I’m helping out at the VA center before I come down to take the kids to the fireworks display, so Chelsea is picking them up for me.”

“I’d think my child’s safety is more important than whatever it is you are doing down there,” the woman had said, and Anthony bit back his immediate remark of ‘your child can take care of her damn self if you’d let her,’ instead responding with,

“While Chelsea and I may not have got on well as husband and wife, we’re still good friends and I trust her with the kids.” Despite the underlying tone of irritation in his voice, that seemed to put her at ease enough that she let Amanda go.

After making his usual Fourth of July cheesecake, Alex had put the treat in the refrigerator to cool and accompanied Anthony to the clinic. He quite enjoyed laying out the food and making small talk with those who had shown up early, like Claire and Roderick. It turned out Claire was one of Roderick’s many nieces, and the older sister of the girl who had painted Roderick’s fake leg. It was a garish pink that day, with little blue blobs that were supposed to be dogs. Alex happily played with another vet’s service dog, scratching it behind the ears and making cooing sounds at it, the guy shaking his head in a good-natured fashion.

Duane took a bus to the clinic, giving himself a way to go home with Anthony. He felt a bit foolish for it, tying his flannel around his waist before setting foot in the clinic, but the great big smile he got from the blonde was worth it. He tried to offer his help, but Anthony, Alex, a few other volunteers and one of the doctors he’d never interacted with turned him away, steering him toward the small, nearly empty parking lot in the back where the vets who could and their plus ones were throwing around a cheap Frisbee. He lifted a hand in greeting to Roddy and Claire, and found himself a nice, quiet, shaded corner of the building to lean against and get lost in his own head while he waited for his friends.

He’d just about finished his third round of admonishing himself for his selfishness when he noticed a long shadow over the gravel nearby. He startled, a harsh breath forcing its way out of his lungs when he looked up to see Alex standing in front of him with an awkward smile on his face. The younger man reached out and took Duane’s right hand, pressing something into it.

“Looks like you could use it more than I could right now,” he said, cocking his head slightly. Alex gave an almost awkward smile before walking away quickly, back inside.

“A stress ball,” Duane said with a snort, looking down at the blue thing in his hand. He squeezed it, watching the goofy face on the side expand, and managed a little chuckle.

The festivities weren’t in full swing until well after six that evening. Things didn’t kick into high gear until after Henry and Mary and Manbun arrived. Duane was drawn out of his own mind by Mary’s antics, and he barely managed to draw her away from spiking the punch.

“The last thing we need is a bunch of drunk vets and doctors, all going batshit when dumbass kids set off fireworks down the street,” he chastised.

“Pft, maybe that’s the last thing you need, but I think it would be hilarious,” she said, but still put the flask back in her jean pocket anyway.

He sat with Mary and Henry and Alex and Anthony. Manbun sat half on Mary’s lap, and he and Henry talked animatedly while Duane watched a sea of faces he didn’t recognize pass. He played with Alex’s stress ball under the table with his left hand, picking at his food with the fork in his right. As it got dark out, people started moving inside. People got antsier as the place grew more crowded, and Duane was no exception. Roderick and Claire brought Joel and Alexis over to crowd the table even more. Anthony found himself with two skittish men pressed up against either of his sides, blushing a bit when Mary pointed it out. He flipped her the bird and Henry and Roderick laughed.

Duane excused himself to the bathroom, and Anthony looked up at him. There was nothing of note in his gaze, just recognition. Duane nodded, handing off Alex’s stress ball. When Anthony passed it over, Alex’s head shot up in Duane’s direction, watching the man stalk off. He looked back at Anthony, and the blonde simply forced a small smile. Alex frowned.

Duane went all the way out to the lobby so he could find a single-stall restroom. He locked the door behind himself and looked in the mirror. He looked perfectly fine and wished, not for the first time, that he felt as good as his reflection looked. His stomach was upset, but he figured it had something to do with the egg salad sitting out for hours before he had any. He splashed his face with water and let the tap run. He sat on the toilet lid for a few minutes.

“Toni!” A low voice greeted, and Anthony cringed. Before Claire could slide into Duane’s vacated seat, Chris sat his thick ass down and threw his plate on the table, pushing Duane’s away.

“Mr. Masters, that seat is taken,” Anthony said with a gesture to the picked at plate.

“Yeah, I’ll get up when he comes back,” Chris said. “Your boyfriend can have his seat back when he gets done shitting or vomiting, or whatever it is little wannabe faggots like him do.”

“Hey!” Henry barked, turning on Chris with a ferocity no one had ever seen from the likes of him. “I’m the only one that’s allowed to call them ‘faggots,’ thank you very much.”

“Oh? Is that anything like the only people who can say ‘fag’ on TV and not be bleeped out are the faggots?” Chris asks, lips stretching with his grin.

“No,” Henry answers, stabbing a slice of a cucumber with a fork that he didn’t even need for the food on his plate, “It’s because when I do it, it’s a term of endearment. When you do it, you’re just being an asshole.” There were murmurs of agreement from around the table.

“So that’s how it’s going to be, huh? I come over to chat with my friend and you all jump down my throat?” Chris says, looking around at the wary faces of the others.

“Sir, all due respect, I don’t know y-”

“Antonia Grace Wright, born August twenty-eighth, nineteen eighty-five at Kettering Medical Center. Graduated from Bellbrook High School with a three-point-six GPA, obtained English and Integrated Language Arts degrees at Wright State University. Any of this ringing a bell?” He asked, looking down at the blonde beside him.

“N-no, sir,” Anthony managed, wondering if the other had continued to keep track of him after college. He couldn’t think, in the panic that crawled up his skin like ants, that all of that information was easily found on Facebook. “My name is Greg,” he said.

“Yeah? Then let’s see some ID, sweet cheeks.” Mary had turned, opening her mouth which had been painted to match her hair, ready to shout something undoubtedly rude when Roderick interrupted;

“Oh, shit, man. You left your wallet at my place last night.” He turned to Claire and tugged on the sleeve of her shirt. “You’d be the best niece ever if you ran out to the car and got it for me.”

“I’m already the best niece ever,” she said with a scoff before jumping up. She headed out the back door as Roderick and Chris stared each other down.

“I know she’s just gonna come back in saying she can’t find it, so why don’t you all cut the crap already,” Chris drawled, spooning coleslaw into his mouth. Alexis and Joel were the only ones who spoke, and they did so in hushed tones, until Claire got back.

“Man, that was hidden. It’s not like he has much money, geez,” she said, throwing the wallet down on the table. Anthony reached out for it with a muted ‘thanks,’ but Chris snatched it up before he could brush it with his fingertips.

“Huh,” Chris said, surveying the license inside. “Well, alright. Sorry about that, man,” he said, handing the wallet off to Anthony. “You just look so much like my ex-girlfriend. Like, damn. I guess I’ll go bother other people, then.” He stood and walked away, plate balanced on one hand.

When he was out of earshot, Anthony hissed, “A fake ID?! Do you know how much shit you could get in over this?”

“Him? It’s your picture on there,” Mary said.

“Yeah, that’s not important,” Anthony bit back. “But, damn. Shit. Thanks.”

“I got your back, Greg,” Roderick said teasingly. “The money in there is mine, though. You can’t have it.”

“Hey, Duane’s been gone a while, hasn’t he?” Mary leaned over to ask.

“Yeah, I’ll go find him,” Anthony offered. “You gonna be alright here, by yourself, babe?” He asked, turning to Alex, who was squeezing the life out of the stress ball.

“As long as that guy doesn’t come back, yeah. I hate seeing you like that.”

Anthony gave a sad little smile at that, a real expression, and leaned over to kiss the top of Alex’s head to ‘aww’s from Mary, Claire and Roderick.

“Wait, I thought you were dating Duane?” Joel asked, and Claire reached across the table to pat his massive hand.

“We’ll explain it to ya, big guy,” she promised, waving Anthony off.

After checking outside for Duane, and having a quick cigarette figuring no one would blame him, Anthony looked around the clinic. He checked all the rooms where people were allowed to gather that evening, checked the bathrooms behind the wooden door – the single stalls and the three stalls. Finding nothing, he headed for the waiting area. When he found the men’s room locked, he knocked. Under usual circumstances, he wouldn’t pry, but he really wanted to see Duane, so he said,

“Honey, are you in there?” and rested against the door.

“Looking for a quick shag in the boy’s room, Toni?” a voice drawled behind him.

“Christ,” Anthony said, pushing himself up from where he’d slumped against the door. “Piss off, Masters.”

“Now, that’s no way for a good little Catholic boy to talk,” Chris said with a click of his tongue. He pushed himself up from where he’d been leaning against Anthony’s desk. He closed in on the blonde, and Anthony couldn’t help squaring up. He fought it, but his fists instinctively rose to protect his face when faced with this man advancing on him. “Do you really think you could stand up to me without your little fag brigade?” Chris asked, frowning. “Besides, a fight’s not what I’m after.”

“Then what do you want?” Anthony asked, forcing his hands down to his sides.

“The truth,” Chris said, ducking in much faster than he looked capable of. He reached around Anthony, thick fingers slipping into his back pocket. Anthony yelped and twisted his body, trying to take Chris down with the spinning motion, but only succeeded on knocking himself on his ass – down one wallet. His real one.

Chris opened the real wallet just as Duane opened the bathroom door. His jaw went slack at the scene before him; Anthony on the floor, Chris holding his wallet in one hand, inspecting his driver’s license, holding it close to his face in the other.

“Well, well, Anthony,” Chris said the name like it was something distasteful, “looks like you’ve still got an F under sex.”

Duane’s blood boiled.


	19. Chapter 19

“You always were pretty bad at that,” Chris started, replacing the ID in the wallet.

If Anthony’s heart wasn’t in his throat, he might’ve stopped to think about how the fake wallet that was still in his back pocket – the simple brown thing – matched his personality better than the ratty black thing with a huge metal skull that he’d had since high school. He flinched when his wallet slapped against the floor. He heard an angry sound from Duane, turning to look at the older man.

“Look, you bastard-” Duane started, only to be interrupted.

“What?” Chris asked, crossing his arms. “You don’t want to start a fight with me.”

“A fight sounds like a pretty damn good idea,” Duane said, his right hand curling into a fist, nails digging into his palm. “I’ve been feeling my skin crawl all night, and now I think I know why.” He stepped around Anthony, but the blonde grabbed onto his jeans in an effort to pull him back. Duane reluctantly opened his fist when Anthony started to stand, helped the other up.

“Don’t,” he said. “I know you mean well, but don’t.”

“I don’t actually mean well. I just wanna mess up his face, babe. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t like to see that.”

Chris snorted. “Well, if you’re going to hit me, you better do it now because I’m about to leave. I have to be at my parents’ house my midnight, and I need to change.”

Duane turned to face Chris, lifted a foot to stomp over to the taller man, but Anthony grabbed him by the forearms. “You can’t,” the blonde said. “Anything you do will reflect badly on me. Think about it.”

“She’s smart, you know,” Chris said, lifting a thick finger to point, “a little messed up in the head, but still smart.”

“He is a man,” Duane hissed, twitching, but not pulling away from Anthony.

“I guess you’re allowed an opinion, but science would disagree,” Chris says, splaying a hand and raising his brows.

“Can you just go, Chris?” Anthony asked. “Can we just not do this? An identity isn’t worth getting into a fist fight over,” he says the last sentence more to Duane than Chris.

“Wish you’d thought that back in college,” Chris said. “But, yeah. I’ll leave.” He turned to head toward the heavy wooden door. With his hand on the knob, be turns back to take a long look at the seething veteran and the irritated blonde holding him in place. “I’m glad to see you’ve calmed down since then. Maybe I’ll get there some day.”

Duane sagged in Anthony’s grip when the door clicked closed behind the massive medic. “Talk about mixed messages,” Anthony mutters, stroking his hands up and down his boyfriend’s arms. He digs his thumbs into the other’s biceps in an effort to stop his shaking. Duane lets out an angry breath and draws the smaller man into a tight hug. Anthony lets out a surprised squeak at the action. “Hey, you’re alright,” Anthony soothed, bringing his hands up to Duane’s back, running them up and down the expanse.

“All that just happened to you, but you’re comforting me,” Duane said with an aborted, tearless sob. He laughed in disbelief, hiccupping, turning his face into Anthony’s neck. “I’m sorry,” he muttered on the next breath.

“No, I understand. It’s new to you,” Anthony says, drawing back. “But, I’m- well, I’m not used to it, and I am bothered by it, but we can’t throw the first punch. We just can’t, ya know?” Anthony knelt to pick up his wallet and tucked it back in his pocket while Duane took his flannel from around his waist and put it on. When Anthony turned back to him, the taller man held it open in offering. Anthony gave a quiet huff and wrapped his arms around Duane’s waist, letting the other wrap his flannel around him. “Maybe you won’t believe me, but I was really outspoken and almost violent about it in college. Like, I didn’t come out of the closet, I shot myself out of a cannon.” He stopped to laugh, digging his forehead into Duane’s chest. “I’m almost surprised I didn’t get expelled, but I guess I’m not, because I only got into one fight on campus.”

“Oh yeah?” Duane asked, fingers finally relaxing on Anthony’s back. “What happened?”

“It’s not a very calming story. Perhaps it would be best reserved for later,” Anthony suggests.

“Nah, I’d like to hear it. I need something to focus on right now, anyway.” He rests his chin on Anthony’s head, snorting into the cracked gelled locks.

“Well, uh,” Anthony started.

“Great start,” Duane teased.

“Shut up,” Anthony said with a pout, “I’m getting to it.

“It was just after that little black girl was murdered in New York.”

“There’s lots of little black girls murdered in New York. You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific,” Duane said, smiling despite the subject.

“The transwoman outside some bar. I guess- I mean, I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but it’s not really important. I mean, it is, but not to the story. Anyway, the kids at school were up in arms, and I got involved in some sort of protest.

“I’m pretty sure I threw the first punch, actually. I was pissed that day and, like, I didn’t even have a reason to be. I was just an angry kid. Long story short, I got a bloody nose and some girl got a split lip.”

“You hit a girl?” Duane gasped, pulling back.

“Uh, yeah? Don’t give me that look,” he said, holding onto Duane’s hips, pouting up at the man. “She was way bigger than me. She had, like, five inches and fifty pounds on me.”

“Dude, you can’t hit a girl.”

“Well, I hit a girl, and she broke my nose for it.”

Duane snorted. No sooner had they finished than the lobby started filling with the people from their table.

“Alright, what happened?” Mary demanded, hands on her hips, looming over them. Alex peeked out from behind her and Claire gave him a little shove forward. Even Dr. Mitchell came out from behind the big, wooden door.

“Nothing, unfortunately,” Duane said, letting go of Anthony when Alex wandered over. Frosty blue tips cascaded over Anthony’s shoulder as Alex laid his head there, holding out one hand to once more offer Duane his stress ball. He accepted it with an amused huff.

“He nabbed my wallet, saw my ID,” Anthony explained.

“Which one?” Roderick asked.

“This one,” Anthony said, holding up his wallet.

“Well, shit,” was all Roderick had to say to that.

“It’s alright, though. No one was hurt. I think I’m gonna take off, if that’s OK,” Anthony said, bringing a hand up to thread his fingers through Alex’s hair.

“Yeah, sure,” Mary says, tilting her head back, “you don’t have to ask us permission to leave.”

Anthony let Alex drive home, sitting in the back with Duane.

Once home, they sat in the kitchen. Alex put coffee on before taking the cheesecake from the refrigerator. He cut each of them a piece and sat, picking at his own.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said after a long moment.

“For what?” both Anthony and Duane ask.

“For not doing more to help,” he muttered, shoving a forkful of the almost too-sweet treat in his mouth. Anthony toes off a shoe to rub his socked toes against the other’s leg.

“Honey, you weren’t even there for most of it,” Anthony says. “It’s alright. I’m alright. Promise.” His words are spoken softly, and Duane feels a bit like blushing.

“Is he, though?” Alex asks, tilting his head in Duane’s direction.

Duane is touched by the sentiment, still holding onto the stress ball even as he sips from a cup of coffee with the other hand. “I’m alright,” he says, smiling into the rim of his mug. He tenses when he feels Anthony’s foot brush the back of his calf. When Anthony starts to push him, he seizes up when he realizes he’s being pushed toward Alex, who gasps when a second set of toes brush his leg. When Alex carefully rubs back, Duane says again, “I’m alright,” and he means it.

They stay in the kitchen for a while, each having another slice of cheesecake. Alex made a large one this year, having figured the kids who hung around the place would have one. He even decorated it with chocolate shavings, though they weren’t the most artistic thing – a Hershey’s bar with a cheese grater taken to it – so there was plenty left after they had seconds.

“Ya know,” Alex starts, nervously playing with his hair, “we could probably go see some fireworks now. I mean, if you guys want to come with me, up on the roof.”

Anthony nods, smiles, turns to Duane, “wanna come?”

He’s a little wary of the idea, but, “sure,” he says, and puts his plate in the sink.

They get out on the roof through the little window in the attic study. They sit with their backs pressed up against the building, Duane digging his heels into the shingles.

“It’s always a little nerve-wracking at first,” Anthony says, giving a gentle tug to Duane’s sleeve.

“Look,” Alex breathes, pointing out at the fireworks in the distance, brilliant blues and greens and off-reds glittering and fading over the tree line. He lays his head on Anthony’s shoulder and smiles, watching the display while tugging absentmindedly at his own hair.

Duane watches the young couple rather than the display, and he feels relief. He doesn’t feel relaxed, because he’s terrified that one of the shingles propping up his heels will break off and he’ll fall, but he’s relieved. Relieved that Anthony is holding onto his sleeve, but paying more attention to Alex at the moment. Relieved that Alex trusts him with his clearly well-loved stress ball, an object that seems important to him. Relieved that there’s no loud sounds, no alcohol at the moment, that the air is cool for a summer night.

They sit there and lose track of time.

Duane is shaken from his daydreaming when he hears a car door slam in the driveway.

“Hey, cunts!” Chelsea calls up to them over the sound of several more car doors slamming.

“You’re a cunt,” Anthony calls back, sticking his tongue out even though he figures she can’t see it.

“No, you,” she says and starts corralling the teens inside. “Come inside! I want some cheesecake.”

“It’s in the refrigerator,” Alex calls out. Once Chelsea and the teens are out of sight, Alex turns to Anthony and presses their lips together. “I’m sorry today didn’t go as planned,” he says, barely above a whisper, “but we can still make tonight nice. We can have Chelsea keep the kids away from the attic and- Oh.” He blushes, having forgotten Duane was still there. “I, uh, w-well, I guess you could, uh, join, if you want.” Duane almost laughs at the unease with which that is said.

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt,” he answers, “but, I mean, I’m down for watching if that’s on the table.”

Anthony’s giggles break up the awkward silence.


	20. Chapter 20

“But, I wanna watch, too,” Chelsea says once Anthony quietly explains the situation to her. His face is pink while she pouts at him. Jeremy has a dopey grin on his face, and Anthony turns to him.

“You heard that, huh?” the blonde asks, hands on his hips.

“Pretty sure we all did,” Jeremy says, tipping his chair back. He has the tiniest sliver of cheesecake, a barely there thing that his fork decimates when he pokes it into the treat.

“You can’t watch,” and Jeremy pulls a face.

He looks like he ate something sour when he says, “I don’t want to watch that.” Then a sly grin splits his features. “Now if she was sucking the-” and Dick slaps the back of his head before he could even point to whoever he was referencing. The two teens playfully slap at each other, distracted for the time being. Chelsea scoffs and rolls her eyes.

“I’ll keep the kids occupied. You go be freaks,” she says.

“You only callin’ us freaks because you can’t join,” Duane teases. Chelsea hums around a bite of cheesecake, then points to him with her fork.

“This one’s startin’ to get to know me pretty well.”

In the attic, Duane had fully expected to just jerk off to the younger couple like live porn, but the show he was treated to was something different.

He expected the two to go at it like a couple of horny teenagers, but Anthony lays Alex back against the pillows and beanbag chairs like he’s a legitimate Faberge egg, something delicate and to be selfishly hoarded. The little blonde spends the first five minutes coaxing Alex out of his clothes, whispering praises that make them all blush, nudging Alex’s cheek with his nose when he tries to hide his flushed, embarrassed face in his shoulder.

Duane thinks briefly of the panic attack he’d had not five paces from where he crouched, watching the two, but the thought drifted away when Alex started making quiet, pleased sounds.

He then thought Anthony must not have been kidding when he said he gave damn good head, and shrugged out of his flannel in an attempt to avoid the sudden heat. When the taller young man pulled at Anthony’s hair, tugging him up and begging for a break, Anthony relented, kissed his lover’s stomach and turned to look at Duane.

He could swear he felt his stomach drop out at that look – a soft smile, his lips abused, eyes half-lidded. He felt weightless for one searing hot second. Then Alex whined, and Anthony turned back to him, cooing gentle words at him before going back to work.

Duane brought a hand down to his groin and stifled a groan, feeling the mess he’d made of his shorts sticking awkwardly as the wet fabric tried to cling to his skin. He couldn’t help but feel embarrassed, having made a mess of himself twice in this attic. But, he figured, listening to Alex’s sweet moans, premature ejaculation was far less embarrassing than wetting himself.

When Alex finished, he showed Duane to the bathroom so they could both clean themselves up. It wasn’t as awkward as Duane suspected it would be, though there seemed to be a mischievous little glint in Alex’s eye that had Duane looking at the man from the corner of his own.

“What about you?” Duane asked when they came back to the pillows, finding Anthony sprawled out over them.

“Hmm?” the blonde asks, cracking one eye open a slit. Duane waits for Alex to finish giving Anthony a possessive, loving kiss before he continues,

“I thought you were gonna, ya know,” Duane gestures around with his palms up, “have sex.”

“We did,” Alex says, “great round of oral sex.”

“Alright smartass,” Duane says, slotting himself into place on Anthony’s side that isn’t occupied by a thirty-four year old with hair better suited for a college student. It’s teasing, and he’s glad that Alex can tell if the amused grin on his face is anything to go by. “I meant, like, you didn’t take anything off. Or get touched, by what I saw.”

“Not that kinda night,” Anthony says, turning his head to steal a peck from Duane. The older man is stunned and loosely throws an arm over Anthony while he tries to process what the other could mean by that.

“Hey, I’m gonna go down stairs in a little bit, but I wanna cuddle for a few first, OK?” Alex asks, nudging Anthony’s face up much in the same way the younger man did to him earlier. The blonde hums happily in response, parting his lips for a series of soft, unhurried kisses.

A little more than fifteen minutes later, Alex heads down the stairs and the two that remain squirm around in the mass of cushioning until they find a more comfortable way to lay together. Duane ends up with his face buried in the crook of Anthony’s neck, arms wrapped around him from behind.

“Didn’t figure you a little spoon guy,” Duane teases.

“I’m really not, but I’m so damn short that being the big spoon is often difficult.” Anthony huffs back.

“D’ya wanna hold me, then?” Duane asks, trying to dig his nose deeper into Anthony’s neck, resisting the urge to playfully nip at the lats under his lips. Anthony turns suddenly in his grip and Duane has to stomp down the laugh that threatens to escape. The dopey look on the blonde’s face doubles the effort it takes. He looks as relaxed as if he had just gotten off, like his muscles don’t even want to work to comply with the sloppy grin on his face.

“About face, soldier,” Anthony says lowly and Duane’s breath catches. He complies immediately, hoping the other can’t feel the heat that rose to his face. He thinks he might get hard again, and feels a hot sort of embarrassment when Anthony crowds him from behind and puts his arms around him.

“Ya know,” Duane starts, swallowing around a building lump in his throat, “you could fuck me if you want.” He feels Anthony grin against the back of his neck and his skin prickles.

“Eventually,” Anthony says, trying to fit their bodies closer even though they’re a terrible fit at this angle, “but it’s more effort than it’s worth right now.”

“You mean, you can’t just, like, turn it on and stick it in?” Duane asked, and it felt like his awkwardness dripping down the back of his throat, adding to the swelling ball of shame there. He’d done some research into the things transmen did to their bodies during his long stints browsing the internet on his phone. He’d read about and viewed pictures of all the surgeries in extensive, gory detail, even knew what each type of pump or rod inserted during a phalloplasty was called. He recalled dropping his phone after seeing one picture, one where a nerve from some transman’s left arm had been cut free to be used to make the pseudophallus, he remembered shaking and running to the bathroom. He’d washed his arm over and over and found that day that any sort of arm trauma bothered him, it seemed. Though, in the end, he’d picked up his phone and scrolled past that set of pictures and kind of hoped that Anthony had had that sort of thing done so they could bond over losing several inches of skin on their arm. He felt guilty for it, but he knew the little blonde would laugh at him for being so torn up over something silly, so he pushed the thought aside as best he could.

Anthony snorted against the back of his neck. “I’d have to go downstairs and get a strap-on and lube, and I don’t really wanna move right now.”

“Oh,” Duane says, feeling almost like heaving out an awkward laugh. “So, you never had a phalloplasty?”

“Nope.” He tensed, trying not to curl his fingers in Duane’s tank top. “That’s not going to be a problem, is it?” he asked, voice low, quiet.

Duane can feel tension returning to the body behind him, the body that had just been so relaxed and cuddly and comforting, so he turns in the stiff grip and brings a hand to Anthony’s face.

“Of course not,” Duane says, stroking the tension away with his thumb. “I’m an equal opportunity lover,” he says, letting the tip of his tongue dart out just enough to be seen. Anthony snorts.

“I’ll bite that thing if you don’t put it away,” he teases.

“Ooh, baby,” Duane jokes.

They sort of wiggle together for a moment and Duane might have felt silly if he hadn’t been in such a playful, loving mood. Any sensuality is gone from the moment, even when their hips pressed together. Something causes a feeling of pressure against Duane’s thigh, and his confusion must show on his face because Anthony says, “I wear a packer.”

“Ah,” Duane says dumbly. “Pack and play?” he asks, sounding a little hopeful, earning yet another scoff from Anthony.

“No. Those make me uncomfortable,” the smaller man answers.

“Can I-” Duane starts, stopping to lick his lips, “Can I play with it anyway?”

“Sure,” Anthony says. The apprehension Duane expected in the other’s voice isn’t there. Instead, he sounds excited, curious. He gasps when Duane worms his fingers under the band of his slacks. He takes his arms from around the older man to unbutton them.

Duane’s hand pushes the zipper open and he feels over the mass inside Anthony’s boxer briefs, five inches from top to bottom, silicone. He chuckles when he pinches the material between his forefinger and thumb and Anthony jostles him with his shoulder.

“Hey,” he grouses.

“What?” Duane asks, “you can’t feel that, can you?”

“No, but there’s a pressure. Quit pinching my fake dick, you asshole.”

Duane can’t help but laugh that time, takes his hand from the other’s pants after smoothing the stretchy cotton back into place. He rests his hand on Anthony’s hip, brings their mouths closer together.

“Sorry,” he breathes, lips brushing Anthony’s when he grins.

“Mmhm,” Anthony hums in response, kissing him anyway.

They spend the rest of the night in the attic, Anthony falling asleep shortly. Duane is about to nod off when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He gives an irritated noise, but reaches for it anyway. It’s a text from Mary.  
How’s Anthony? He good enough for you get some tonight?

He scoffs and tosses the phone somewhere in the mass of pillows.


	21. Chapter 21

The rest of the summer moves by far too quickly.

Jeremy gets a job at a movie theatre, tearing tickets. He’s also given a lot of cleaning duties, which he grumbles about frequently. Chelsea, Alex and Anthony simply smile and ruffle his hair. Anthony does end up taking him to get his own bank account.

They take several more outings with the kids, though sometimes Amanda has to miss out, so Lyndsay refrains too, out of comradery, or something like it. They go bowling, to a couple of baseball games, to a quiet little comic book store in Yellow Springs that isn’t so quiet anymore when it’s filled with six teenagers and four adults who are really into superheroes. The man behind the counter smiles all through mediating an argument between Dick and Jeremy about who the best billionaire superhero is, his dark, chubby cheekbones more pronounced with his laughter. Both Con-El and Anthony wind up buying way more than they should, but Anthony would do just about anything to see Alex smile, and the same goes for Con-El and Dick. The blonde even buys Duane a poster for his sparsely furnished home, and it has the taller man shuffling his feet awkwardly.

“Oops,” Dick deadpans when she purposefully knocks Duane into Anthony. Everyone watches to see what will happen next, when Duane is holding himself up by his grip on Anthony’s shoulders, even though Jeremy and Dimitri pretend they’re not. The teacher rolls his eyes and gives Duane a little peck to humor the others.

Duane and Anthony make a little progress in their foray into sexual exploration, though it’s mostly Duane rediscovering what he likes. Anthony doesn’t seem too keen on taking off more than his shirt or letting Duane near his private parts beyond the occasional fondling of his packer or a playful slap to his ass, but it’s what works for them. Duane is late to work on more than one occasion because Anthony apparently thinks that when Duane is fresh out of the shower and dressed for work in that annoying green shirt with the added sleeves and his tight black pants is the best time to fumble for his fly and bend him over the loveseat to bury his face in Duane’s army strong ass. Duane thinks, as he waits on one more annoying customer who is giving him hell over too much or too little of something on her sandwich, that if someone told him five years ago that he was about to get a decent portion of his arm melted off, would go through a painful healing process and even more painful skin grafts, have panic attacks on a semi-regular basis, be cycling through shitty therapists like teens cycle through fashion trends, and have a job where no one arounds him understands the meaning of the letters when arranged PTSD, but he works it anyway because those letters don’t make enough for disability since he can’t stop lying to his shrinks to make them think he’s managing better than he is, but that he’d be OK with that most days because he fell in love with a little, blonde, buff-but-not teacher and is kind of crushing on the guy’s boyfriend and girlfriend, well. He’d have told them they have a wild damn imagination. He’s happy more often than not, and the smiles are becoming more and more real rather than the false bravado he learned from his squadmates who were pissing themselves too, holed up in what remained of a bombed-out building.

He talks to Dr. Mitchell more openly about some of his injuries. A stray bullet that grazed his leg – bled like crazy but didn’t do more than tear the skin real bad, thankfully. A piece of shrapnel in his hand – though that hadn’t actually been that bad, surprisingly. He wasn’t able to tend to it right away, he told her, in the panic that came with a crudely made bomb going off just far enough away that his hand and the other active guard’s shoulder were the only American casualties, but it didn’t lead to any lasting damage on either of them, so he forgot why he mentioned it in the first place. Dr. Mitchell said something about healing, but Duane tuned her out when she started giving lines that he’d heard from other shrinks. When she offered for him to continue, he did. He told her about a possible concussion – a result of a decent sized chunk of freaking building falling on him, and not for any explosion, either. Just because they’d been put up in a shitty building. He managed a laugh at that.

When he started to tell the story about the scars on his arm, he drew in a deep breath. Dr. Mitchell assured him that he was safe, that he didn’t have to share any more than he was comfortable with, that blah blah blah and yadda yadda yadda. He realized he’d rather be telling Anthony. It seemed like a moment the blonde would treasure, and the fewer people who knew the story, the more precious that moment would be. He stared at Dr. Mitchell for a long moment after that revelation, then changed the subject.

Chris is civil to Anthony, and the shorter man returns the favor. For a few weeks, they don’t say anything but what is strictly necessary to arrange appointments. Anthony can’t help but wonder if that has anything to do with the way the others glare at the giant of a man like he’s the scum of the earth, and he almost feels bad for it. Of course he was irritated by his ex’s rude behavior, but it wasn’t like he was trying to knock his teeth down his throat, not like the real fights they had at the end of their relationship. It wasn’t like when Chris would get mad at little Toni and tear the pages out of one of his comics and Anthony would lose his mind and start making confetti out of Chris’ Magic cards that were worth more than twenty dollars apiece. It wasn’t like how that used to lead to Chris taking Toni by the ankle and pulling him off the bed, flinging the smaller body into something not hard enough to incapacitate the yipping Chihuahua of a young man, it wasn’t like how he’d get up from that and kick Chris in the back of the knee so hard he’d buckle and curse and retaliate and they’d wind up rolling around on the floor, pulling hair and tearing skin with teeth and nails. It wasn’t like he was in any physical danger, so Anthony was capable of civility.

Amanda came out on Facebook and her parents were none too happy about it, but she refused to change her ‘interested in’ from women, and without her password, there was nothing they could do about it. She was grounded, effective until she changed it back, but she could see her friends back at school soon, so she refused.

Chelsea refused to wear a headscarf when she went to a reunion with her family, but so did the girls under thirteen and the non-Muslim wives of her relatives, so she hung out with them and helped babysit the children. It wasn’t all that bad, since one of them watched Agent Carter, so at least she had someone to talk to. She left when her parents brought a young man to meet her, declaring that family reunions were no place to find potential life mates. “This is Ohio, not Alabama,” and her mother gave her a disapproving look that barely covered her amusement. Her father tried to explain that he wasn’t related to any of them, not even a cousin, but she was already in her car, turning it on to make her way to Anthony’s place and one of her bottles of whiskey.

Mary and Manbun made whatever they’d had official, and they all came to find out that Manbun’s name was Jason Todd Elliot, and yes, his parents had been big Batman fans. He’d almost been Timothy Drake Elliot, but his mother had insisted that Drake wasn’t a middle name.

Near the end of the summer, when things were getting hectic again with Anthony’s day job demanding he come back to school two weeks before the students, and Alex and Chelsea working longer hours because of the seasonal merchandise, tragedy struck. Only one of the Torres brothers was showing up for appointments, and the loss was visible on his face. Only in his early thirties, Tim looked like he was pushing fifty with the bags under his eyes and the discolored skin and streaks of silver in his hair. The two women that accompanied him didn’t look much better.

The twins had married another set of twins before heading off to Iraq or Afghanistan – Anthony didn’t know where they were sent; they’d never offered any of their story, or told anyone in group for that matter – and had come home near deaf, half blind and unspeaking. Tim and his wife had their own twins to take care of, so he held on for as long as he could after his brother’s suicide. Everyone at the clinic had to find out from the papers that Tony had driven all the way up to Akron, their home town, and had been spotted on the Y-Bridge. Sources said he’d gotten spooked by the attention and had driven south until he found a quiet patch of forest and put a gun to his head. The papers had the audacity to print that he’d died without knowing he was going to be a father.

Postmortem, he never became a father. The stress and press attention led to his widow miscarrying, sitting with Tim and his wife in the waiting room. Tim’s kids were staying with their aunt, Anthony had overheard when the women were talking while waiting for Tim to come out of his appointment.

That’s where they’d stay when Tony Torres decided he couldn’t take the stress himself a week later.

An air of melancholy hung over the clinic like a thick fog that didn’t seem to want to let up for a while. Families and loved ones held each other tighter, said they loved each other more often, and Duane even took to being affectionate with Anthony without a care as to who was around.

School started up again, and it helped Anthony get out of his own head. He liked having the teens wrapped up in their own little world, thinking something that happened in high school could have any real effect on the rest of their lives. It was freeing and, listening to the kids snack on whatever he brought and chat with each other, he started to give real smiles again and push away the rain cloud the loss of the Torres twins left.

He realized a couple weeks in that he had some problem students. A girl who wouldn’t abide by class cellphone rules that were really simple: if you had an A, you could play on your phone as long as there wasn’t a test or quiz out. If you didn’t have an A, but you pulled your phone out anyway, Mr. Wright would out your grade to the class. It kept most student’s phones in their pockets, As or not. There were a couple of boys who kept picking on another boy in the class, a chunky little thing with glasses. They’d irritated Anthony to the point where he got a little short with them, threatening detentions. He confiscated their rubber bands and made them pick up their hornets after class.

Still having his birthday to look forward to, Anthony was unaware that just a few days after his entire world would be turned on its head.


	22. Chapter 22

Anthony’s birthday was supposed to be a quiet affair, being a school night and all, but it wasn’t.

Lyndsay was only able to sneak Amanda out for a few minutes, but Dick and Con-El and Jeremy made up for the lack of their voices. Dimitri was as quiet and polite as always, and brought Anthony some honeyed treat his parents had made. Cut into squares before it was even baked, it was easy to pass out to the partygoers, even as the thick honey made it try to stick to the dish. Mary stuck her fingers right in to grab a piece, forgoing the formality of a fork or even a plate, though Jason waited his turn like a normal person, rolling his eyes at Mary. She’d wheedled Anthony’s address out of Duane and brought Henry and Roderick and Jason over, arms loaded with gifts and snacks and a card from the Rogers family, including baby Gene’s handprint.

By eleven thirty, Anthony had managed to kick out everyone that wasn’t staying overnight. By midnight, he was showered and in bed with Duane and Alex curled around him, and Chelsea curled around Alex. She fell out of the bed at four, and Anthony woke up just long enough to realize what had happened and laugh.

“We need a bigger bed,” Chelsea said.

The next day, during lunch, the girl who had the inability to keep her phone in her pocket stopped by Mr. Wright’s classroom. She wanted help with her paper, wanted Anthony to show her again how to use the library system to find papers to use as resources. She complained the entire time, and had Lyndsay’s eye twitching just a few minutes in. The regular kids sat huddled in a group of desks near Anthony’s desk, and Jeremy rubbed soothing circles on Lyndsay’s back to keep her from saying something about the girl, but she couldn’t keep quiet when the girl tried to sit on Mr. Wright’s knee.

“Hey,” Lyndsay barked, standing up. Anthony had stood as well, his hands up for a second before he moved to the newcomer’s side, holding a hand out to ease Lyndsay’s raised heckles. He leaned over his desk so she couldn’t get between him and the surface, pointing to what he was showing her on his computer.

Much to the teens’ dismay, the girl, Erika Johanna, was there every lunch period that week, trying to get help with her paper. By get help, she appeared to mean play dumb until Anthony did it for her, which he wouldn’t do. She grew frustrated by Friday when Anthony left her at his desk with his computer, to sit and talk about recent Captain America comics with the others while they ate lunch. She lagged behind when the others left, looking very reluctant to do so.

“Students are going to start coming in any second now, Miss Johanna. You’d best be off to class,” Anthony instructed.

“But I need help with this! I don’t know what I’m doing!” she huffed, digging her heel into the carpet. She had long brown hair which she kept pulled back in a low ponytail off to one side, and she tugged on it almost angrily.

“I’ll go over the host system again on Monday, and we’ll also review what makes a good argument. Is there anything else you need help with?” he asked, watching as a few of the students who sat at the rear of the class filed in, picking at the tray of fresh veggies he’d laid out that day.

“Writing it,” Erika complained. “Can’t you just do a paragraph for me and show me what I need to do?”

“I could do an example paper, I suppose,” Anthony said, already considering how much time it would take to write and how much paper he’d be using to give everyone in class a copy.

“I mean my paper,” she said, gathering her books and slinging her purse over her arm.

“I can’t write a portion of your paper, Miss Johanna,” Anthony said, trying not to sigh. “I can refer you to a tutor if you’d like further instruction. There is also supplemental study available from three forty-five until-”

“If you don’t, I’ll tell my mom you touched me inappropriately,” she whispered, stepping in close to do so. Any emotion drained from Anthony’s face and he stared at her blankly.

“Good luck with that,” he said, carefully placing his hand on the back of her left shoulder, steering her toward the door.

He spent the rest of the school day agonizing over the threat, pulling out his hair tie and retying it, thinking again that he needed to get it cut. He had Amanda in one of his afternoon classes this year, and she immediately realized something was wrong. When she asked him about it, he simply shook his head. She left with a frown on her face and Anthony buried his face in his hands, trying to figure out of he should report the threat or not.

He finds out on Monday, after spending the weekend with his face buried in a book, in Duane’s ass, in Alex’s cooking, that not reporting the threat was the exact wrong thing to do.

Erika isn’t in class that day, and Anthony heaves a heavy sigh before he goes over how to use the search engine again, anyway. During lunch, a suit enters his classroom with one of the counselors and the principal in tow. They shoo the children out, and they put up a fuss, but eventually leave when Anthony asks them politely.

“Can I help you?” Anthony asks, about ready to vomit from worry.

“A situation has been brought to our attention, Mr. Wright,” the counselor started, stepping forward since all the other two seemed to be willing to do was frown. Anthony looks over at the police officer in the doorway for a moment, then turns back to the counselor and raises a brow as if asking for an explanation. He’s a very tall, spindly man, and he seems nervous as he says, “you’ve been accused of a crime, Mr. Wright.” Anthony sits back and crosses his arms.

“That being?”

The counselor looks over at the principal, shows his teeth in an awkward not-smile and the shorter, rounder man turns to the suit.

“Gross sexual imposition of a minor,” the suit says.

“You’re kidding,” is all Anthony can manage, his shoulders going slack, looking around at the faces.

“For god’s sake, Anthony, she said you whipped out your dick when she was just trying to get help on her paper,” the principal chokes out, looking torn between crying and screaming. His face is turning red with the effort it’s taking him not to do one or the other and he fidgets with his tie to reign himself in. When Anthony laughs, the older man accidentally pulls his tie loose. “This isn’t a laughing matter, Anthony!” The man uses his first name because he likes him. He’d always been one of his favorite teachers, was always pleased with his performance even if some organization or another thought an average student grade trending toward Bs rather than Cs wasn’t right or that he shouldn’t be providing his students with snacks.

“It wouldn’t be,” Anthony says, finally relaxing a bit, seeing a way out of this mess, “if I had a penis. Which I don’t, in case you didn’t catch what I was implying.” He can’t help but snicker again as everyone, even the officer with the short black hair and formally folded arms, looks confused.

“Can you,” and there’s a pause because this is a situation the suit has never ran into before, “do you have medical proof of that?”

“I can get it. What do you want, pictures? Here,” the blonde says, taking his wallet from his pocket. He holds out his ID and the suit looks it over with a tense brow, his hooked nose wrinkling in confusion. He nods for the officer to come over and hands it off to him. “Usually I’d say it’s unfortunate, but in this case it seems the opposite. Ohio makes it really tough to change your gender marker on your ID, so I never bothered.”

Everyone looks to the officer for confirmation, and the man hands the card back to Anthony. “It’s legit,” the young officer announces.

“So, what happens next?” Anthony asks, putting the card away, tucking his wallet back into his pants. He starts packing up his paperwork because he knows he’s going to have to leave, be that for home or for the police station. He doesn’t forget the letters to Con-El.

“We still have to investigate this in accordance with Title IX,” the suit informs, “but since this looks like a mistake, it should blow over quickly.”

“A mistake,” Anthony parrots, his gym bag on his desk. He zips it up and stares blankly at the suit.

“We will contact you at a later date with the information we will need, Miss Wright-”

“Mister,” Anthony interrupts, uncaring.

“My apologies, Mister Wright,” the suit says and clears his throat, “but we do know that we will need a signed letter from your general practitioner or gynecologist, if you have one, confirming your, uh, lack of male genitalia. Until this is settled, I think it would be best if you were put on administrative leave.” He looks at the principal who nods in agreement. Anthony sighs at that and stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“I assume you have to escort me off the property?” he deadpans, looking at the police officer.

“Yes, sir,” the young man says, his words sounding a little uncertain, voice wavering on ‘sir.’

Anthony just sighs again and makes a gesture with his free hand, suggesting the officer lead the way.

When Anthony gets home, he turns on the TV through muscle memory alone. He doesn’t hear the anchor, or even register what is on the screen. All he can hear is the ringing in his ears, the lack of movement in the house since Alex is at work and Jeremy is still at school. He rests his elbows on his knees and presses his fingers into his temples. He thinks Duane is at work, but is tempted to text him anyway. His fingers itch for his phone, and when he does pull it from his pocket, there’s a text from Alex he missed at lunch that’s a bunch of heart emojis. He breaks down into tears and slides to the floor.

He pulls himself from the floor and washes his face before heading off to the clinic on autopilot. He hears Henry before he sees him, but doesn’t react to the conversation the other is having like he might normally.

“When I say ‘sand-nigger,’ I’m not referring to black people,” Henry is saying, talking to someone Anthony doesn’t know, and doesn’t even look at. “I don’t have a problem with black people. Well, not the ones in America or, ya know, Canada, or Britain or wherever. Like, Western countries, ya know? It doesn’t even mean Muslims, either. Not the ones in America, anyway. I mean, it could technically apply to the ones out in the desert, because sand and all, but it doesn’t, because they’re Americans. Right, Anthony?”

“Huh?” Anthony asks, looking up. He blinks a few times, his lips slightly parted.

“Man, you’re out of it today,” Henry says, leaning over Anthony’s desk. “Duane, who is not a nigger, by the way,” he says with some irritation, turning briefly toward whoever he was talking to before turning back to Anthony, “keep you up all night?”

“No, I-” and Anthony stops, pursing his lips. “Just a rough day at work.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Henry asks. At the look that twists up Anthony’s face, he says, “alright, no need to talk about that. How about a rousing conversation about racial slurs instead?”

“Sure,” Anthony says.

He doesn’t participate.


	23. Chapter 23

When Anthony tells Alex what had happened, the older man looked like Anthony felt; scared, confused, jaw slack and brows pinched. Jeremy barreled through the door when they were sitting down to a silent ten PM dinner and slammed both hands down on the table to draw Anthony’s attention.

“What the hell happened? People said you were escorted off of school property by a cop!” He’s too nervous to sit down. It had been bugging him since he’d heard about it after lunch, but he had to be at the theatre right after school. “Did you finally snap at those jackasses in your last class?” Anthony looked down at his plate and Alex got up to busy himself with getting something for Jeremy to eat. “Dude,” Jeremy says, breathless, “what happened?”

“I was accused of gross sexual imposition of a minor,” Anthony said, no inflection to his words and without looking up from moving around mashed potatoes.

“You?” the brunette mop gasped, and slid into a seat. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Erika, huh?” Anthony hums an affirmative and Jeremy jumps up. “Shit,” he says. “Shit, seriously?” he drawls, kicks a chair. “What’s going to happen?”

Anthony sets his fork down and looks up at Jeremy. He folds his hands around a cup of coffee, not worried about the caffeine since he has nowhere to be the next day until five. “There will be an investigation,” he starts, “I’ll be cleared of all wrongdoing eventually, but it’ll take weeks, maybe months. I’ll probably lose my job anyway, and that accusation will hang over my head, keeping me from teaching anywhere, ever.”

“God,” Jeremy breathes, the bowl of green bean pasta salad Alex sat in front of him not looking the least bit appetizing at the moment. “What will you do then?”

“I don’t know,” Anthony answers honestly. He brings the cup to his mouth and inhales the aroma, knowing he should be taking full advantage of the calm before the storm. “Teaching is all I ever wanted to do.” He then gives a grin that his heart isn’t in and says, “Well, I did briefly want to be a basketball player, but, ya know, I’m a bit too short for that.”

“If you were a basketball player, this wouldn’t be an issue for very long,” Jeremy gripes. Alex nods in agreement. Jeremy lifts a fork and takes a bite of his food. A long moment after swallowing, he says, “I want you to know that I’ll be here for you, no matter what.”

“Thanks,” Anthony manages, grimacing, feeling the pull behind his nose of welling tears. He excuses himself for a cigarette.

Out on the porch, he texts Duane.

Do you work tomorrow?

Yea. Y?

He sighs and types out a, When are you off?

4 is the response.   
Want to come to the clinic with me tomorrow?

Sure, Duane answers.

I’ll swing by your place to pick you up at 4:30?

Sounds good. :)

Anthony watches TV with his side pressed up against Alex’s, the older man’s arm wrapped around his shoulders. Jeremy tucks himself into his favorite teacher’s side, and the blonde can’t help but feel that he shouldn’t be letting the boy cuddle with them like this. Feels that, some way, somehow, this too will come back to bite him on the ass, and he feels guilty. Withholding affection from his may-as-well-be-foster-son wouldn’t make matters any easier to deal with.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he does, and wakes up tucked against Alex’s chest. The older man smiles down at him, but he’s already dressed for work. Anthony remembers that he has a full week this week, thirty-nine hours – which is the max they’ll give a part time employee – that Anthony will have to be without Alex and have almost nothing to do.

“Breakfast is on the table,” he says, “I love you.”

When Alex leaves, Anthony eats, has a cup of coffee and a cigarette on the porch. He brings his mug in and takes his plate from the table to the sink. He washes the dishes, and once that is finished, cleans and sanitizes the countertops just for something to do. He makes himself another cup of coffee and tries to watch the late morning news. When he finds it to be all repetitive garbage, he turns it down to background noise level and tries to read. When he can’t focus well enough to do more than recognize that there are words on a page, he sets the book aside and puts on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt to go for a run.

He took a bottle of water with him, but wound up losing it somewhere along the way. About twenty minutes into his jog, he zoned out and just let his feet take him wherever they wanted to go. A car honking at him brought him back to reality from whatever blank-space he’d gone to, and he quickly got out of the road. He lets out a low whistle when he realizes how far from home he’d taken himself, and considers calling a cab to get him home. He checks his pockets for his phone and wallet and, upon finding out he has neither, he starts the trek home. He thinks he brought a water bottle with him, and the fact that he can’t remember troubles him a little bit, but since it’s cheaply and easily replaceable, he pushes the thought from his mind.

When he gets home, it’s almost three. He’d left at eleven, he marvels, and grimaces at the three texts from Alex that he didn’t respond to because he was in an exercise trance. He has the time to shower and pick up some food before he goes to meet Duane, so that’s what he does.

Armed with several chicken quesadillas and Beefy Crunch Burritos, he waits on the hood of his car and smokes a cigarette. When Duane gets out of his car, he has food too. He swipes Anthony’s cigarette, but stops with the filter at his lips, noticing the bags under Anthony’s eyes. He hands the cigarette back and cards the fingers of his hand not holding a bag of subs in the smaller man’s hair and tilts his head to the side.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Can we go inside?”

“Yeah, c’mon,” Duane says, and threads his fingers through Anthony’s once he throws out the cigarette. He tugs the small blonde along behind him and grows more worried by the second at just how compliant he is. “I brought home subs, but it looks like you got something better,” he says, trying to draw the other into conversation. “I’m tired of subs,” Duane grumbles, but brightens for, “but I got one the way you like it.”

“My favorite sub is expensive. You shouldn’t spend that kind of money on me,” Anthony says when they sit down. He throws the Taco Bell bag on the table between them.

“Ten bucks is hardly expensive when you compare it to the things I wish I could spoil you with. Besides, they were free. They were going to switch out some of the things that have a time limit to be out in the open, and the cool boss was in, so she let me make a couple of subs to take home,” Duane says as he takes the sub he made for Anthony from the bag. He opens it and lays it out in front of the other, and the blonde looks down at the sub and looks like he’s going to cry. “Baby, what’s wrong?” Duane asks after putting his own sub in the refrigerator.

“I may have lost my job today. Some kid just,” and Anthony pauses to pick a banana pepper off of his double-meat, double-cheese Philly cheesesteak, “decided to be a dick and, well, now I’m screwed because if a kid says they saw your dick, they saw your dick, even if you don’t have a dick. So people are going to make up stories and my name is going to get drug through the mud and I’ll be out of work,” he rambled, picking at jalapenos and onions.

“Jesus, Anthony,” Duane says, and the younger man only shrugs. He pushes the bag toward Duane before picking off half of his sub to take a bite. They eat in silence, tears in Anthony’s eyes. He refuses to let them fall again.

“What happened to you?” Mary demands, hands on her hips. She stares down at the young man, her head tilted back and one brow raised.

Duane had brought a chair over to sit at Anthony’s side, putting his hand on the blonde’s knee occasionally, kneading the tan fabric of his slacks. Anthony was known for being polite and not looking at people for longer than strictly necessary, but his staring at the desk in front of him immediately told Mary that something was amiss.

“I’m on administrative leave from work,” he says, taking the mouse in hand to bring up the spreadsheet.

“What, some kid say you diddled ‘em?” Mary asks, crossing her arms over her chest. Her arms fall away limply when Anthony looks up at her, eyes wide and lips parted. It was eerie how she seemed to know everything before she was explicitly told, but Anthony supposed that’s what made her a good intelligence agent. “Oh, shit,” she breathes, “I was just kidding. I figured you got hurt, or something. Damn.” She pulls up her own chair and takes Anthony’s other side, clapping her hand on his shoulder when he starts to tense. “Tell me everything,” she says, and Anthony doesn’t want to, but the story pours out anyway. “Well,” she starts, “at least you have that much going for you,” referring to his lack of biological penis. “Have you made an appointment with your gynecologist yet?” When Anthony shakes his head in the negative, Mary’s fingers tighten on his shoulder. “It’s alright, you can go to mine and I’ll go with you. If they’re weird about it, I’ll scream them into submission,” she offers and Anthony chuckles weakly. “There’s going to be a press shitstorm, though,” she warns, and Anthony already knows, “But if you need a place to stay to get away from it, my door is always open.”

“Thanks,” Anthony manages after a minute, “but I can’t leave Alex and Chelsea to the wolves. Not to mention Jeremy,” he frets.

“Oh, shit, that’s right,” Mary says, eyes widening a fraction, fingers tightening without her express permission, “You have that boy living with you. That’s going to look really bad when people start looking into you.”

“He’ll be eighteen in two weeks,” Anthony says, fingers seeking out Duane’s. The dark fingers thread through his and offer a reassuring, gentle squeeze. “But it won’t matter, since he was living with me before he turned eighteen.” He curses quietly and turns his head away. He almost laughs when he notices that Mary is wearing her combat boots with jean shorts, but he doesn’t want to sound crazy, so he bites down on it.

“Does he have somewhere else he can stay?” Mary asks and Anthony shakes his head. “Shit,” Mary says when her name is called from the doorway. “Since you don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow, we’ll go out after this. You could probably use a drink, eh?” She pats his shoulder once before getting up to disappear behind the heavy wooden door.

Anthony puts her chair back and straightens the rows just to have something to do.


	24. Chapter 24

"This isn't necessary," Anthony insists when a Long Island iced tea with several lemon wedges is thrust into his hand.

"It isn't," Mary agrees, "but drink it anyway. You don't want to get heart disease, do you? Stress does all sorts of awful things to the human body." She seems darkly giddy with her warning.

"Like this isn't going to cause me intestinal distress," Anthony mumbles, but sips from the glass anyway. Duane holds his other hand under the table, their bodies pressed together from hip to knee, and the contact starts be too much for the blonde. It's not particularly hot, but it feels tacky, like they had been sweating. Maybe they had, Anthony thinks, maybe he had and Duane was just putting up with it for his sake. The thought makes him want to yank his hand away, but he holds still, sipping his drink and staring off over Mary's shoulder, pretending to listen to whatever story she's telling about Jason. The lighting in the bar is starting to get under his skin, sickly amber colored lights turned just a pinch too low for a respectable establishment, housed under garish orange glass lamp shades over the tables. "How's that ten year age gap working for you?" he interrupts, wincing after the fact, not having realized he stopped her mid-sentence until after it had already happened.

"Pretty well, actually," Mary says, sighing a lock of her hair away from her forehead. He knows he should keep pretending nothing is wrong, but he thinks he's starting to get on Mary's nerves. He doesn't want to light that short fuse, so he changes the subject,

"If I gave you the money, would you get me some onion rings? I'm actually starting to get a little hungry," he lies, but he wants a reason to remove his hand from Duane's, to stop pretending he's listening to Mary. Guilt tickles his throat, but he swallows it with another sip of his beverage, which is mostly the melted water from the ice.

"Let me buy them, and your drink," Mary says, standing. "I never got to properly thank you for hooking me up with Jason." Anthony shrugs, is about to say that it wasn't that difficult, but Mary had already headed off toward the bar.

While she's gone, Duane shifts away, slowly lets go of Anthony's hand and the blonde is both remarkably relieved and terrified. His shoulders hunch and he curls and flexes the fingers of his now free hand as he tries to stop the motion. Duane puts space between them and Anthony is distressed by how much he wants the contact back when only a few seconds prior he'd been silently begging for it to end.

"We can leave," Duane says, his voice low. "You don't need to stay here if you don't want to be here. You're under no obligation to drink," he reminds the younger man. Anthony blinks slowly, letting out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Those damned yellow lights were turning the air the same offensive color, it seemed, poisoning it and making it hard to breathe. "Mary won't be offended if you need to get out of here," Duane says, noting the way the blonde's fingers stiffened on his glass, the way the skin around his eyes tightened when he'd said 'get out.'

"After I eat," Anthony muttered, his voice pitched just a little too high.

"Are you even hungry?" Duane asked, turning away from Anthony to pay attention to his coffee that he'd hardly touched as of yet.

"No," Anthony breathed, and the little bit of honesty untied one of the ropes from around his lungs.

"Then I'll help you finish them so we can leave. Sound good?"

"Yes," he said with a minute nod. He sipped silently on his drink for the few minutes left until Mary returned.

"Here ya go!" she said, dropping the basket in front of him. She flopped onto the bench opposite them and did her best to smile. "Feelin' your drink yet?" she asked, motioning to the glass still clenched in Anthony's hand. He hadn't realized he'd drained most of it. He frowned.

"Not really," he answered, setting it aside carefully.

"Should I get you something stronger, you mutant?" she asked around the straw in her mouth, drinking from something multi-colored. She seemed in a good humor, but Anthony still suspected she was upset with him.

"I already have to drive him home," Duane complained, reaching out for one of Anthony's onion rings. Mary slapped his hand, and he slapped back, finally stealing one, and putting the whole thing in his mouth. The blonde managed a smile and bumped his knee against Duane's leg, receiving a bright but crumb-lined smile in return, so he assumed the jerkiness of the motion wasn't too off-putting. When Anthony managed to make his fingers move the way he wanted them to, he started tearing apart the onion rings and eating them in small chunks. Duane picked from the basket, too. Mary even tried one when offered, deciding she'd get herself a batch later.

All of five minutes had passed, but it felt like an eternity to the blonde, and to Duane, who had an idea of what was going through his younger lover's mind. When Anthony muttered that he was tired, chewing on a lemon wedge absently, Duane offered to drive him home. Mary stood up when they did, and a brief look of fear passed over Anthony's face, but Duane's arm kept him from fleeing before Mary could wrap him in a hug. The blonde did little more than blink, raising his arms to return the gesture a little too late.

"Guess my coping methods aren't for everyone," she said, pushing him back to arm's lenght, holding him by his shoulders and looking him up and down. "You have my number, so call or text me if you need anything." Anthony nodded in response and let Duane lead him out of the bar, to his car where he waited, leaning against the driver's side door while Anthony smoked and learned how to breathe again.

"I can't imagine that helps you when you're dealing with a panic attack," Duane said, watching a group of giggling college students out of the corner of his eye. Anthony's breath caught and he coughed a little.

"I was that obvious?" he asked, voice small.

"No," Duane says, then sets his mouth in a firm line. "I'm just getting to know you well enough," he says after a moment. He sighs softly and uncrosses his arms, holding a hand out and asking for the keys. "Where do you want to go?" he asks when Anthony takes the passenger seat, staring blankly forward.

"Not home," is all the other says.

They head to the nature reserve and walk around for a while even though it's closed. Only when they find themselves hiding behind the fallen tree does Anthony take a long, deep breath. He jams his fingers in his hair and forces himself to straighten out his back, arms blocking Duane's view of his face.

"How long have you been holding that in?" Duane asks, holding out the cigarette he'd swiped from Anthony on the walk down the hill to The Three Sisters.

"About eleven years," Anthony answers, taking the cigarette. Smoke curls up from Duane's slack lips. The blonde smiles weakly and stubs out the cigarette on his shoe. He presses his face into Duane's chest, hoping Duane won't press further. He doesn't, simply wrapping his arms around the younger man.

When the blonde pulls out of his embrace, his face is set in a determined scowl.

"I- if it's alright, I'd like to stay with you tonight. I know I should be home right now, making sure Alex and Jeremy are alright, but Chelsea can take care of them while I'm gone, and they can take care of her. I need to," and he almost doesn't get it out because the admission feels like a knife trying to climb up his throat after it had ravaged his heart and lungs, "I need to focus on myself right now. I need to call my lawyer first thing in the morning. I need to text Mary, have her set up an appointment with her gynecologist since I haven't been to my doctor in years, and this would only shake up shit in their office." He stops to shake his head and looks surprised when a bead of moisture lands on his cheek. He looks up, expecting to find Duane crying, but the dark eyes are dry and concerned, so he pulls a hand away from the other and swipes it over an eye he closes, pulls it away and finds his skin wet. "I'm crying," he states with a little laugh.

Duane joins his awkward laughter. "Oh my god," he says, mock dramatically, "you are human." Anthony huffs out something like a chuckle and swats at the taller man, getting his cheeks cupped in response. He loves how Duane's fingers are slender, thinner than Alex's, but just as, if not more, powerful and sure when he holds the small face still and wipes tears away with his thumbs. "I'd love to have you stay with me tonight," Duane says, trying not to smile when Anthony blinks slowly, sleepily, "but you need to text Alex and Chelsea and let them know what is going on." He pauses briefly to see if Anthony will respond. When he doesn't, just stares, Duane continues, "I'm going to hold you to calling your lawyer in the morning, and I'll be there if you need me to, or you can go out on the porch or sit in the living room while I make breakfast if you don't want me around. When you get off the phone, we'll text Mary, but after that I want you to rest, whatever that means to you, alright?" Anthony nods, pushing his face into peachy palms. "You just came down off of a panic attack, but instead of crashing, you feel determination. Right now," he stressed. "I know you already know this, but we are often blind to our physiology and how the brain and body react to stressors, and sometimes need an outside source to remind us of these things. You're going to crash, soon, and I want you to know that it's okay." Anthony nodded again and turned his face into one of Duane's palms, pressing a kiss there. He closed his eyes. "You still with me?"

"Yes," Anthony answered.

"Good," Duane answered, pulling the other into him, pressing the blonde head into his chest. "You've been the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I will help you through this in any way I can."

Alex and Chelsea texted, Anthony falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. Duane laughs and curls up around him, remembering how much he used to love sleeping in a real bed, how much he used to crave it.

Anthony is awake before Duane, and fully intended to just enjoy the close proximity to his sleeping boyfriend, but the weather was still warm and their skin had grown tacky overnight. He pries himself away from the other, expecting Duane to snap awake, but he doesn't. He merely grunted, turned over into the warm spot the younger man left behind and fell back asleep. Anthony slips out of the room, takes a quick but efficient shower, puts his pants back on and swipes a tank of Duane's to wear until he could go home and change. When he hears Duane grumbling to himself about not wanting to be up, he laughs and heads outside to smoke and call his lawyer.

The man is a bit irritated that he didn't call sooner.

He returns to a plate piled high with scrambled eggs and his mouth waters. He almost drools, still not perfectly awake with only having sated one of his addictions, but makes an annoying slurping sound and Duane laughs. He offers the blonde instant coffee, and Anthony is more than happy to get his other fix. Duane tells Anthony he has to get ready for work in an hour, and asks if he needs him to take the day off. He assures the taller man that he doesn't, so they eat. Anthony only gets halfway through his plate, but Duane finishes it off for him.

At home, Alex feeds him again later in the day, and once more he only finishes half of the plate. He wonders if the others realize that he's significantly smaller than them. He hasn't texted Mary yet, but he figures he can do that while at the clinic that evening.

Business As Usual is the air he puts on that evening, though he fidgets and chews yet another hole in the cap of his pen that isn't really even his, but is kept separate from the others because the other secretaries know he chews on things. He texts Mary between his duties, and she promises to meet up with him the following morning to schedule an appointment with her doctor. When the office is clear and quiet later in the evening, and he's starting to calm down, starting to feel like everything just might work out, he runs into a hurdle he doesn't expect.

Dr. Mitchell.


	25. Chapter 25

She's wearing her glasses instead of her contacts and she looks dead on her feet when she comes through the heavy wooden door.

Her hair is falling out of the ponytail it's pulled back in and her grey two button jacket is open, showing only a sliver of a rumpled powder blue notch collar shirt underneath. Despite her rumpled state, there's a seriousness in her eyes as she trains them on Anthony, one hand still on the door's handle.

"Anthony," she says, and he can hear a bit of trepidation in her soft voice, "I need to speak with you for a moment."

"Speak away, Doctor," he says, continuing to sweep as though he isn't afraid he's going to be told to leave.

"A little piece of information found its way to me," she started, taking the last of the tepid coffee and pouring it in one of the little foam cups. She tries to break up powdered creamer in it as she continues, "It seems that you're under investigation for a crime." She glances at him from the corner of her eye, beyond the scope of her lenses. Anthony stops, just holding the broom out to his side. His mood sours quickly, but he does his damnedest not to let it show. He turns to her.

"If you are going to tell me to leave, please just do so," he says, slowly closing his eyes.

"I wasn't going to do that. I don't have that kind of authority," she says, making a face at the taste of her coffee. "If I were to try to tell you to leave, I have a feeling many of those here would soon request a different doctor. I merely meant to talk to you about the situation."

"You know I can't do that, ma'am," he says, and returns to sweeping. "You are not my psychologist, and therefore none of what I would tell you is privileged."

"That is true, I suppose," she said, wiping at the corner of her mouth with her thumb. "You don't have to tell me what you did, but I would like to ask that you tell me how you are feeling. I understand that you tend to hide how you are feeling in an attempt to not upset those around you, but I feel that if you don't, this situation will become a road block on Duane's path to recovery."

Anthony's hands tighten on the broom. "I didn't do anything. It's what I didn't do that got me into this mess," he complained, making an attempt to keep his voice even. He doesn't want to be angry with the woman, she's only doing what she thinks is in the best interest of her patient. But his emotions seem to be coming easier since his initial numbness to the situation has worn off, he realizes.

"Care to elaborate?" she asks.

"Doctor, I already told you-"

"Yes, fine. I apologize." She waited just long enough for the silence to stretch thin enough that the ticking of the clock on the wall could break through it before she spoke again; "Perhaps it would be in the best interest of both yourself and Duane if you put this," she paused, briefly, but it didn't go unnoticed, "relationship of sorts on hold until this situation blows over."

"No," Anthony says simply, and the doctor looks affronted, but he doesn't see the expression. He continues his task with an almost single-minded focus.

"Do you really think he can handle being put through court proceedings right now?"

"He is stronger than you give him credit for," Anthony says, dropping to his haunches to sweep dirt and trash into a dustpan.

"Do you think I can't tell that he lies to me?" she accuses. That catches the blonde's attention. "If he would stop lying, he could get on disability and have the time and resources to actually, properly recover."

It came out before Anthony could bite it back; "maybe he doesn't want that diagnosis hanging over his head." He draws in a breath, already regretting his quiet outburst. "I have no right to speak for him, but I do know that people treat you differently when they so much as think you have a mental illness." He stands, full dustpan in hand, leaning the brook against his desk. He empties it in the waste bin not five feet from where she stands, then continues as he grabs the broom to put it away. "Some people are alright with that, willing to take the time that their specific case needs, and that's fine. However, some of us need to pretend that everything is alright in order to be alright.

"I think it's great that Duane has you to talk to, and you do help him in some respects," he stresses, "but he also has friends and loved ones that help him in others." Doctor Mitchell nods solemnly, and when she opens her mouth to speak, Anthony interrupts before a sound can leave her lips. "But all of these relationships include some give and take, you understand. You get money in exchange for your help, I get his support when I have things that need dealing with." Once more she starts to talk, and once more Anthony interrupts. "I'm almost finished," he says, swiping the carafe from the coffee machine. He takes it to the bathroom, leaving the door open and raising his voice just enough that she can hear it over the running water. "I understand that your job is difficult, and I know right now that I shouldn't be comparing my experiences to yours, but it seems pertinent here. I play amateur shrink for a handful of teenagers with their problems that run the gamut from mundane to worrisome, and I'm aware of just how stressful it is. But the difference seems to be that I wait for them to come to me." He shuts the water off and puts the pot back in place. "I shouldn't tell you this, but Duane already worries about how much you've got on your plate. Maybe I'm being a bit of a hypocrite by saying this, but, don't take it home with you. Duane's problems should be between he and you. Not he and you and the boyfriend you don't approve of."

"I never said I didn't approve of you," she immediately defends. "The whole situation just gives me reason to worry. With other partners you can't devote yourself fully to Duane and his needs."

"Have you ever asked him his feelings on the matter?" Anthony asked, rubbing his thumbs on his forefingers to keep himself from crossing his arms or putting his hands in his pockets.

"Of course," she says, "but would you believe me if I told you his responses sound rehearsed?"

"I might, depending on what you meant by that."

"They sound practiced, as if he's been coached."

"Are you making an accusation?" Anthony asks, raising his brows.

"Does it sound like one to you?"

"I know that most people aren't on board with polyamory," the blonde starts and gives a heavy sigh, turning to fix any chairs that may have come unaligned during the day, "but despite what you may believe or feel, it works for us."

"I have no hang-ups about polyamorous relationships. I just don't think it's the best thing for Duane at the moment. In a few years, perhaps, but right now he can barely face his own feelings, and you having multiple partners gives him an excuse not to. There's also the matter of the recent accusation lodged against you." She finishes her coffee and throws the cup in the waste bin, tidying up the sugar and creamers afterward.

"It won't make it to court," Anthony says, shaking his head as he tries to believe the words coming out of his own mouth.

"I don't believe it will, either," Doctor Mitchell says, "but you are transsexual and a teacher. The media will have a field day with your case, regardless. Do you really think Duane can handle microphones and cameras in his face on a daily basis? Won't hiding your autistic partner from reporters consume so much of your efforts that you won't be able to give any of yourself to Duane?"

"Maybe, Doctor, but we'll find a way."

She stares him down for a full minute, tilting her chin toward the ceiling as if sizing him up. When he does nothing more that turn his head slightly and raise a brow, she shakes her head almost fondly. "I hope, for both of your sakes, that you do." With that, she disappears behind the wooden door.

Anthony brings his hand to his neck, seeking out his pulse with his first two fingers even though he splays his entire hand across it. His heart rate is higher than he is comfortable with, and his fingers tighten almost against his will. He remembers other hands around his throat, he remembers a blade pressed there threateningly and he yanks his hand away as if burned. He shakes off the sensation, the flitter in his memory snow globe obscuring those thoughts for the time being. He has things he needs to be doing, he reminds himself, and gathers his things to head home.

He wanted to be anywhere but home at that moment, parked in his own driveway, smoking a cigarette in his car. He had something just under his skin, something akin to a need to be alone crawling around trough his veins at the moment, but he also had to show the people he cared about that he was alright.

The night goes well, even though Alex holds him a little tighter, even though Chelsea and Jeremy invade his personal space a little more. In the morning, Mary shows up, having somehow weaseled an appointment for that same day out of her gynecologist and his address out of Duane. Anthony doesn't want to go, but he knows it's going to be impossible to avoid, so he bids Alex farewell with a long, mournful kiss as Chelsea and Mary gab like old friends.

"How are you feeling?" Mary asks when they've left Anthony's neighborhood.

"Scared," Anthony says, and Mary gives him the side eye, not expecting the truth. She quickly turns her attention back to the road.

"Of the gynecologist, or in general?"

"Can't it be both?" he asks.

She hums thoughtfully. "I'll be there," she trails off for a moment, "for all of it. So you don't need to worry."

"Some might say that's cause for worry," he jokes. She scoffs and the bubble of gloom they'd been locked in popped.

Anthony barely resists the urge to kick the doctor, remembering a time when he had in his youth, leaving bruises on Mary's hand as he squeezes the life out of it. She looks at her white, bloodless fingertips and scoffs, promising him once more that everything is going to be alright.

With his paperwork in hand, he leaves quicker than Mary can follow, but he only waits by her car and smokes, staring at the ground between his feet.

"Stupid question," she begins, walking up, "but, are you alright?"

"Mmhm," he says, not capable of making words at the moment, his tongue lead in his mouth.

"Feeling violated?" she prods, remaining out of striking distance, even though she doesn't think he's the type to lash out.

"Very," he complains through clenched teeth, trying not to wrinkle the envelope of papers he's holding even though his fingers long to squeeze.

"I always do too whenever I get out of one of those," she commiserates. "So," she kicks at a broken piece of pavement, prying it up with her boot, "Chelsea suggested a pizza party. You're probably not up to eating right now, but, ya know, it might be good to be surrounded by the happy faces of people who care about you."

"I'd rather be alone, if I'm honest. One of the doctors at the clinic already found out about the accusation, so it's only a matter of time until I won't have a chance to be by myself."

"Alright. Can I take you anywhere? Do you need anything?"

"Would you mind terribly running me by a gas station so I can buy another pack of cigarettes and a drink, then dropping me off at the nature reserve for a couple hours?" He throws out his cigarette, would cite his anger over feeling violated for his littering.

"I wouldn't mind that at all," she says, giving him the softest smile her handsome face is capable of.

"Also," and he looks sheepish, "would you mind going back to my place in the meantime? Maybe order pizza in an hour or so, then come get me after the pizza gets there?" He closes the passenger side door and looks at his hands and the papers between them as he folds them between his knees. The smile Mary gives him is bright enough to frighten deer.


	26. Chapter 26

After trusting Mary to see his paperwork home safely, Anthony wanders the park for the better part of an hour, eventually finding a spot to rest on the large rock just before the fence that marks The Three Sisters' territory. He lays on it on his stomach with his knees curled up under his pelvis and just observes the wildlife. He smiles when birds perch nearby and pick at things, almost laughs when they're startled by a squirell. When he starts to drift in and out of consciousness, he forces himself upright and decides to walk the rest of the trail back to the parking lot.

A quarter of a mile from the lot, he hears voices behind him. He ignores them and lights a cigarette. The voices grow closer, and he notes that they are men, two of them, harassing each other playfully over one thing or another. When they're upon him, they fall silent. He assumes they didn't want a stranger to hear their banter. He assumed incorrectly.

"Hey," one of the men calls out to him, a threat in the greeting, "you're that creep who touched Sherri's kid, ain't you?" Anthony turns only his head in response.

"I'm sorry, you must have me mistaken for someone else," he says, fighting to keep his stride even, though his blood screams at him to run, throbbing hard in his throat and temples.

"No, I'm pretty sure of it. You're that faggy looking teacher that pervs on little girls," the stranger says, falling into step with the blonde. The man's friend takes up his other side.

"Sir, I'm not even attracted to women," Anthony argues, his voice deadpan.

"So then it was a power play, eh? That's even worse," the friend accuses.

"I fail to see how one reason for violating someone is worse than another, but I have not violated anyone."

"Yeah you have, you piece of shit. Sherri's little girl is all tore up about it, and here you are walking a public park all by your lonesome. Looks a little suspicious, don't it? Lookin' for another little girl to torment? Maybe a boy since you're a faggot?"

"You're the one having those thoughts, not me," and Anthony winces, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut because there's a fist flying in his periphery.

He ducks back and it misses his face by mere inches, but the other man grabs a hold of Anthony's ponytail and yanks him back by it. He knew he should have cut it, he thinks before the edges of his vision go white and pain blossoms from his stomach. He drops his cigarette, the embers burning his fingers as it slides between them and falls to the ground. One of the mens' sneakers crush the fire as he steps in to bring more punishment upon the teacher. Pushing the pain aside, Anthony ducks down and spears the man with the raised fist, rolling with the momentum and tumbling over the other. He scrambles to his feet, but is shoved from behind by the other man. The blonde barely keeps his balance, but manages and starts to run for the parking lot.

The first man who spoke to him is hot on his tail, and in significantly less pain, he catches up quickly, grabbing Anthony by the shoulder and spinning him around. Anthony throws a punch without thinking, and the man steps into it so Anthony's forearm hits his neck relatively harmlessly.

"Yeah, give me a shiner, boy," the man taunts, putting both hands on the button-down clad chest and shoving hard. Anthony grabs the man's right wrist in his left hand and turns it outwards, stepping in with the intent of hitting the man in the throat hard enough to stun him, but the words "it'll only make our case easier" stop him. "That's what I thought," the man says, his stubbled face lit up with a malicious grin.

"Now take your beating like a good little bitch and we'll be on our way," the second man adds as he walks up, having recovered from being knocked to the dirt. His clothes, however hadn't, bearing streaks of dust all over.

Anthony hopes nothing breaks when knuckles crack against his temple. When he hits the ground, he takes it back, hoping the man broke bones in his hand with the hit. A foot in his ribs has him struggling to breathe. He loses count of the strikes when he's pulled up by his hair and knocked to the ground again. A button from his shirt gets torn off as it's forcefully removed from it's tucked position. His hair tie vanishes into the grass.

"What the bull-fucking hell!" someone exclaims, and the voice sounds familiar, but the blood rushing in his ears disorients Anthony and keeps him from trying to figure out who it is. He thinks he may have heard a dog growl, but can't think straight enough to tell a dog's growl from any other creature's.

The men attacking him become distracted and, after a few seconds of only grunting and rocks crunching under shoes rising over the pounding, pulsing of excited blood, he turns his battered body toward the new fray. He stares numbly after his savior, watching as a truly enornous man throws one of the attackers into the other by a meaty, massive-pawed grip on his face.

The attackers collect themselves and flee, a brindle pit bull chomping at their ankles, then the man turns toward Anthony.

A wet chuckle works its way out of Anthony's throat, and it turns into a full on laugh when Chris Masters leans down and starts to check him over.

"Jesus Christ, Toni, hold still," he orders, and earns himself a groan when those meaty paws assess the damage to his ribs. "At least those aren't broken. I need to check your eyes and nose, don't move."

"Ngh," is the only response he gets until Chris takes hold of Anthony's nose. Then he earns himself a yelp.

"Not broken, just tender," Chris says with a sigh of relief. "You might have an orbital fracture, but there's no damage to the eye, other than a burst blood vessel, but that should be harmless, so there's no immediate cause for concern," he says, then pulls Anthony's hair out of his face, gritting his teeth when a few strands get caught in blood. "Little cut here, but probably from hitting the ground," he says, motioning to a bleeding area on the blonde's face. He helps Anthony sit up, then stands himself and whistles. A minute passes, and the brindle pit bull comes happily waddling up, it's tongue hanging from it's mouth as it pants lightly. The dog sniffs Anthony curiously, then licks at an unwounded part of his face, putting one paw up on his chest, bracing itself to jump up on the blonde. "Down," Chris commands and the dog sits, looking at Anthony expectantly. The blonde reaches out and scratches the dog behind the ears.

"Missy?" he asks, looking up at Chris.

"Naw. Son of Missy. This here's Elliot."

"Really?" Anthony asks and scoffs, bloody mucus oozing from his nose.

"It was my mom's idea," Chris says, looking somewhat sheepish. The expression fades quickly as he looks down at Anthony. "What the hell did you do to start this, kid?"

Anthony doesn't answer. Instead he keeps scratching the dog, who pushes his head into the petting.

"Never could keep your mouth shut, could you?" Chris asks, holding out an open pack of Camels to the little blonde. Anthony takes one and puts it between his lips. He tries to stand, and Elliot bounces around him excitedly until Chris hauls Anthony up by a grip on his bicep. The blonde groans miserably and stretches as much as he can, struggling to take a deep breath.

"You sure nothing's broken?" he asks in lieu of a response.

"Yup," Chris answers, "you'd probably be in less pain if it was." He lights a cigarette of his own before offering his lighter to Anthony, who purses his lips around the filter to hold his cigarette out to be lit. "So, what happened?" Chris asked, bracing Anthony as he starts to make his way toward the parking lot with a hand on his upper back.

"Like you thought, I opened my fat mouth."

"What did you say that was so bad they decided to beat on you like that?"

"It's a long story," Anthony groans, dropping to his ass and crossing his legs. Elliot climbs into his lap and turns his head down for more petting.

"I've got time," Chris says.

"I don't," Anthony shoots back.

"Look, I'm trying to be nice," Chris says, his jaw setting.

"Sorry," Anthony answers, his voice small and reserved. "I've had a rough day."

"I can tell. Where's your car?"

"I was dropped off."

"They coming to get you soon?"

"I hope," Anthony answers with a sigh.

The two smoke in silence until Mary's blue Kia pulls into the parking lot. She and Duane jump out of the vehicle as soon as it is off, Duane scooping Anthony into his embrace, Mary taking Chris' shirt in her fists. She hauls him up by her grip on it and Elliot growls menacingly while Anthony hisses in pain, pushing weakly at Duane out of reflex.

"What the fuck did you do to him, you piece of shit?" she spits at the large man, and he answers her ire with a decidedly unimpressed look.

"Mary, stop," Anthony whines, finally finding a comfortable position in Duane's grasp. "He didn't do anything wrong." Mary looks like she doesn't believe him for a moment, her eyes narrowing before she releases Chris, pushing him back. "He saved me," Anthony mumbled into his boyfriend's chest, smearing half-dried blood on his tank top, but neither of them cared too much at the moment.

"He what?" Duane gasped, his grip on Anthony tightening. When Mary backed down, so did Elliot, though the dog took up a seat at Chris' side.

"Two guys attacked me and he ran them off."

"Fuck," Mary hissed, stomping one foot. "Fucking fuck," she growled, kicking a rock. It banged off of the side of the portable toilet near the entrance to the path, but did nothing to ease her anger. "It's started already," she bit out in disbelief.

"Someone want to tell me what's going on here?" Chris asked, reaching over to scratch behind Elliot's ears. "What did I get myself into?"

"Baby?" Duane asked, holding Anthony upright as he wavered and braced himself on the other's chest.

"I got accused of something I didn't do, and now people are out for blood," Anthony explained. Chris raised a brow, silently asking the blonde to continue. He picked at the dried blood on his forefinger while he waited for an answer. "One of my students said they saw my dick, Masters."

"But you don't have a dick, as far as I'm aware," he said with a slight tilt of his head.

"Yeah, but they didn't know that. Now people think I'm a kiddy diddler and they're trying to make my life a living hell." The way Anthony spoke around Chris didn't go unnoticed by the others. He has a bit of an accent and doesn't bother choosing his words carefully.

"You're a bit touched, but you ain't that bad. You always liked manly men, anyway. Unless there's somethin' in the water making buff-assed kids around these parts, ain't no way you did that."

"Yeah, well." Anthony sighs and moves away from Duane to stand on his own. "Thanks," he mutters in Chris' direction.

"Yeah, whatever. Just don't make a habit of getting beat up. I only came down here to walk Elliot today because the dog park was closed. I don't wanna find your corpse in the bushes the next time I come down here." He stood and lit two cigarettes at once, handing one off to Anthony. "I might not like you very much, but I don't want to see you dead." He walks off toward a white minivan, whistling and patting his hip to see that Elliot follows.

"Fuck," Mary says again.


	27. Chapter 27

Anthony makes a bee-line for the bathroom upon returning home, Mary and Duane stalking in behind him looking absolutely livid. Alex looks shocked and Chelsea wears a concerned frown, kicking out a chair and calling for Duane to sit.

"What the hell happened?" she asked, crossing her arms. Jeremy and Alex jump up and start for the hall bathroom, but Mary's hands on their shoulders stop them.

"Sit down, boys," Mary orders, squeezing just a bit. "Female company would be better for him at the moment."

When Duane sits, he drags his hands down his face and lets a grunt escape his throat. He leans his elbows on his knees and looks up at Chelsea, who seems to be waiting patiently, despite the effect the others' fury was having on her - her eyes hardened and jaw set.

"Some guys attacked him over this," and he stops to grunt again, leaning back in his chair, pressing both palms into his eyes, "thing," he eventually settles on. "Fucking Masters saved him."

"Masters?" Chelsea asked, baring her teeth in a confused manner. "I thought they hated each other."

"I did, too, but I guess not enough to let him get his ass beat." When Duane settles on a position, Mary decides to wander off to the bathroom she assumes Anthony is trying to treat his own injuries in.

When she finds that he's in the shower, she sits on the toilet lid. "So what's the damage?" she asks, crossing her arms, one leg resting over the other while she anxiously bounces her booted foot.

"Jesus shi-" Anthony gasps, his figure jerking violently beyond the not-quite-see through shower curtain. He groans in pain and Mary feels bad for a moment, pursing her lips. "Nothing's broken," Anthony finally responds, "but I'm in a lot of pain."

"Did you take any painkillers yet?" she asked, her fingers itching to open up the mirrored cabinet and explore it's contents.

"Much as I didn't want to, yes," Anthony admits bitterly.

Silence fills the room alongside the steam, making it that much harder to breathe.

"You should have taken pictures of the damage before you got in the shower," Mary said, trying to keep judgement from her voice.

"Maybe, but I'd look better with clean hair, and it'll give the bruises a chance to really show," he mumbles. Mary makes a noise of acknowledgement.

"Do you want me to leave while you dry off?" she asks when the faucet squeals at being turned off.

"No, I need someone to document my injuries, anyway. Just hand me a towel and sling my boxers over the railing, if you would." After dry and in shorts, he steps out of the tub, holding tightly to the edge of the sink. His knuckles are white with the effort. "My phone is in my slacks," he says, holding himself up with one hand, prying the cabinet open to retrieve a brush with the other. He pulls his hair back while Mary opens the camera function on his phone, both of them making breathy, irritated noises all the while.

"Oh," Mary says when she looks up, her voice smaller than Anthony's ever heard it before. It makes him grind his teeth against the shame flavored bile rising in his throat. "It's," she stops short, bearing her teeth for a second, "not the worst injury I've seen," though it sounds more like a question. Anthony huffs out a small laugh and turns to face Mary. He lifts his right arm, a short lived growl escaping his throat at the pull in the bruised muscle, making room for her to take a picture of the angry red, raised skin, already blotted with sickly shades of purple and green. He stares blankly forward when she snaps pictures of his face, and flinches when she reaches out to trace her thumb over the little cut on his cheekbone. "At least the skin was only broken once," she mumbled, shutting off his phone. The clicking sound was deafening in the rapidly cooling room.

After a beat, Anthony mumbles, "I'm hungry," and Mary manages to chuckle. There's a knock at the door and Mary cracks it open, greeted with an armful of clothes via Chelsea, who lets herself in to the small room and closes the door behind her.

Mary sits on the toilet lid and watches with amusement as Chelsea tries to help a whining Anthony into his clothes. Once dressed, Anthony relents to the brunette patching up the small cut on his face, making a disgusted noise as she slathers it with some ointment she found in the cabinet, and mock-biting at her hand when she slaps on an oversized bandage. Chelsea places a kiss over the center of the bandage and Anthony swats at her. Red faced, Anthony makes a grab for his dirty clothes, but Mary swipes them away before he can bend more than halfway. Chelsea corrals him out of the bathroom, the shorter of the two whining all the while.

"I'm gonna kill Erika," Jeremy growls as soon as he lays eyes on Anthony.

"No you're not," Anthony corrects, grabbing a slice of pizza from a box on the counter. His walk is stiff, and it pains Mary and Chelsea to see the man putting on a front, pretending to be in less pain than he is. After a massive bite is swallowed, Anthony points toward Jeremy with the slice. "You aren't going to breathe a word of this to anyone, understand?" The youth nods, though he looks torn between raging and sobbing.

Duane vacates his seat and Alex jumps up to get Anthony a soda, and the blonde waves them off, claiming he's not an invalid. They still make him take the seat anyway, and Duane fills a plate for both of them, following closely behind Alex to deposit their things on the table. The men pull up seats next to Anthony's and the blonde chuckles, muttering something about his 'guard dogs'. It's too quiet while they eat, so Anthony kicks Mary under the table and blames Duane.

There's raucous conversation after that.

Anthony manages to get three slices down and finishes his beverage. He wanders out to the porch to have a cigarette and Jeremy tags along, stealing one when Anthony sets his pack on the railing. The lack of sound isn't terribly awkward, but Jeremy fidgets. It reminds Anthony of when he and the boy had first started hanging out. It starts to rain lightly, a pleasant sprinkle, and the blonde watches the droplets compress the grass, making the lawn come alive with movement. The boy gives Anthony a long look after he finishes his cigarette, staring at the man like he wants to say something, but shakes his head against it. He stubs the butt out on the rubber plant and pushes his frizzing hair out of his face before turning to head in.

"You coming?" Jeremy asks.

"I'm going to have one more. I'll be in in a few minutes," Anthony answers, listening to the door shut behind himself.

Halfway through his cigarette, the rain starts to pick up until it's loud enough to hear. It's still little more than an annoyance if someone had been caught out in it, but it's almost pleasant to the sore blonde. He closes his eyes and starts to nod off, leaning on the railing, favoring his left side. He drops his cigarette when he hears sneakers on the steps. His eyes snap open and Dick is bounding up the steps, panting.

"Looks like I'm not the only one who got beat up today," she observes once under the safety of the overhang. She pushes the wet hood of her sweatshirt down and reveals that the left side of her face is pretty swollen, starting to bruise along her jaw. "Who got you?" she asked, and nabbed Anthony's cigarettes before he could say anything about it. He'd never known her to smoke, but he had smelled it on her before. He'd always assumed her grandmother smoked.

Instead of answering her question, Anthony says, "Aren't you only fifteen?"

"And?" she shoots back, lighting the cigarette with her own lighter, fished out of the pocket of her mostly dry jeans. "Didn't you start smoking when you were younger than me?"

"I did," he says, turning toward her, his pain obvious even as he tries to hide the grimace. "Difference is, I wanted to die back then," and he takes the smoke from between her lips. Her blue eyes are red rimmed, like she tired of crying not long before she arrived.

"There's no difference, then," she says, swiping the smoke back, not even flinching when she burns her fingers in the process. Anthony lets her have it that time and lights his own with a sigh.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I asked you first, sir," she says, leaning her back against the support beam.

"A case of mistaken identity."

"Ah, so someone beat you up over Erika's bullshit. Got it," Dick says. She runs the fingers of her free hand through her dirty blonde hair, trying to free the shoulder-length mass of tangles and fails miserably.

"Do you want to talk about what happened to you?" Anthony offered.

"Same shit, different day," Dick answers, shrugging. "Gramma was mad, so," she trails off.

"Did Con-El drop you off?" Anthony asks, trying not to pinch his brow.

"No, I walked," Dick responds. Anthony grits his teeth.

"You live several miles away," he says, a hint of awe working it's way into his voice.

"Yeah. It's a wonder I'm fat, huh? If I gave up soda, I bet I wouldn't be. Oh well," she says, throwing her unfinished cigarette into the pot, not bothering to stub it out. "Can I go inside?"

"Sure," Anthony allows with the condition, "let Chelsea have a look at your face, please."

"Yes sir," she says and heads in. She shuts the door just a little too hard.

Anthony isn't far behind, finishing his own cigarette not a minute later. He finds the kitchen suspiciously deviod of teenagers, Chelsea raising her brows at the blonde as he hobbles in and grabs himself another slice of pizza. A few slices are missing. He assumes Dick took them.

"Did she run off without letting you look at her face?" Anthony asks, looking at Chelsea, who is still nibbling on a slice.

"Jeremy offered to patch her up," Chelsea informed. Alex smiled conspiritorily and Duane looked somewhat amused.

"Ooh," Mary says, having grown bored and started exploring cabinets, "someone's after my heart." She pulls out a bottle of Pincer Vodka.

"Well, I mean, if you're into the whole polyamory thing," Chelsea says, getting up to look for her shot glasses.

"Not really, but sharing your foreign alcohol with me might start opening up my mind to it," Mary teases, tongue peaking past her lips.

"I think I'm going to go relax on the couch," Anthony groans, "I'm going to need to be comfortable if I'm going to be dealing with two drunk women.

"Bitch, you love us," Mary says, filling a shot glass that says 'suck it' for Chelsea, then a polka dotted one for herself.

"Of course I do, but that has no bearing on how much of your drunken shenanigans I can handle."

"We'll keep you amused, promise," Chelsea growls after knocking back a shot.

"I'm sure you will," Anthony says, hobbling through the kitchen for the living room. He gets to the couch and finds a moment for himself only to hear Dick crying from the guest room, Jeremy's room.

He sighs and closes his eyes.


	28. Chapter 28

Anthony gives up on resting, forcing himself up from the plush siren's call. He grabs his keys off the hook on the wall, not remembering how they got there, and that worries him, but he decides he'll deal with that later. He limps down the hall to Jeremy's room, knocks lightly and waits about thirty seconds before pushing the door partly open. The two don't move from where they're curled up on the bed, though Dick turns to face away from Jeremy.

"Dick," Anthony starts, "get your shoes on. We're going to swing by your place and grab a few of your things. I can't let you go back there anymore."

"But I can't stay here," she says, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Regardless, she puts on her old, worn out shoes on over her old, grimy-looking socks. "Not with the Erika bullshit going on. I don't want," she stops, pulling at a hole in her t-shirt, "I don't want to be the reason you get in trouble." She sniffs, and it's a horrendous sound. Anthony thinks he can hear the mucus draining down her throat.

"If you don't stay with me, you'll have to stay with Con-El. I can email Miss Davidson later, but you need a change of clothes, at the least." He jerkily motions with his thumb over his shoulder. "Let's go."

"Can I come?" Jeremy asks. Anthony looks at him over his shoulder, his neck aching from just the slight turn. The boy has dried tear tracks on his cheeks.

"Sure," he says, softening.

At the door, Duane stops him.

"Where are you going?" the older man asks.

"We're going to go get a few of Dick's things so she can stay the night," he answers, lifting his free hand to brush his fingers along Duane's bare forearm.

"I'm coming with you," Duane says, lifting his arm to take Anthony's hand in his. Before Anthony can speak, Duane says, "You're in no shape to go anywhere on your own."

"I'm not alone," Anthony says, pointing with his keys at the teenagers behind him. Dick nods solumnly and Jeremy has a look of grim determination on his usually soft features.

"You know what I mean," Duane starts, bringing the smaller hand to his lips to press a kiss to it. "You need someone strong and uninjured."

"I've been lifting old ladies in wheelchairs longer than you've been in the military," Dick quips.

"I was in the army for nine years, Dick," Duane shoots back, letting go of Anthony's hand to put his hands on his hips.

"Correction," she starts, "I've been lifting old ladies in wheelchairs for two-thirds as long as you were in the military. So it stands that I'm two-thirds as strong as you." She puffs out her chest and lifts her chin.

"I think your math's a little off there," Duane says with a chuckle. "I know you're a strong kid, but you're still a kid. Sex, age and past experiences aside, I still have the edge because I'm fully grown. I just wanna be there to keep you all safe."

Dick scowls then turns to look at Jeremy who shrugs.

"If it's alright with Mr. Wright, I guess you can come," she huffs. Anthony lets out a breathy chuckle and Duane smiles.

"We'll be back in a bit," Duane announces.

"Where you goin'?" comes Mary's call from the kitchen.

"Gonna go get Dick's clothes," he responds.

"Cool. Be safe and call us if you need anything."

Dick's house is in a quite suburb where all the lawns are neatly cut and well organized, but the fences are high and made of polished wood. Having followed her directions, he pulls up in her driveway, and it's not yet dark out, but it's getting there. The heavy rain clouds sloughing through the sky help keep the light away.

Dick and Jeremy jump out of the car as soon as it is stopped, and run up the short sidewalk lined with drooping white and purple flowers to the door. They encounter a problem when they get there. Trudging back to the car, Dick announces that the door is locked.

"You don't have a key?" Duane asks, raising abrow.

Dick scoffs. "No. The old bitch loves locking me out. It's, like, her favorite thing to do." She sighs and flops down in the back seat miserably.

"You don't need a key," Anthony says, reaching over Duane who curls himself up so the blonde can access the glovebox. He takes out a glasses repair kit and a few other items Duane doesn't catch before he gets out of the car. "Watch my car, please," he asks as he walks away toward the door to the house, forcing himself not to limp.

"Oh, shit! We get to see more of Mr. Wright's sordid past!" Jeremy cheers, happily plodding up behind him, Dick hot on his heels. Anthony rolls his eyes. He subtly checks the area to see who could see him picking the lock.

"There are lock picking tutorials on the internet. It isn't difficult." He's blocked on one side by the garage, by large shrubs on the other. His back is wide open, but the teenagers looking over his shouders hide him. He makes quick work of the lock and stands back once the door is open. "Hurry," he orders and the teens run inside.

Back in his car, he throws the items back in the glovebox.

"Should I even ask?" Duane says, reaching out to put his hand on Anthony's knee for a moment before taking it back and letting it rest in his lap.

"It's a simple answer," Anthony says and lights himself a cigarette. "My mother used to lock me out all the time. I learned to pick locks so I could get in and get stuff when I needed it."

About five minutes later, the teens are running from the house, giggling. They throw the things they'd gathered in the back seat between them; a garbage bag that seems full of soft things, a full, heavy backpack, and a fairly large stuffed lizard.

"She's awake!" Dick pants through laughter. "We better go," and Anthony pulls out of the driveway. He follows the speed limit as not to draw attention to them.

Dick seems in good spirits when she lights a cigarette from a pack she'd taken from her grandmother and offers Jeremy one. "I have a few dollars," she sasys, "can we swing by UDF, get some ice cream?"

"Save your money," Anthony says, "I'll buy."

They all get cones and grab a couple pints to take home to the others. They sit and eat in the car, talking between sucking the melting treats from their fingers. No one mentions the way people stared at Anthony's bruises or the accusatory glares sent Duane's way.

"So, like, my aunt is going to have my ass on a silver platter when she finds out I left," Dick says, a slurp of her cone breaking up her sentence.

"If your aunt doesn't care that her own mother is abusing you, I don't think you should really care," Anthony puts in.

"Seconded," Jeremy adds with a nod.

"She likes to pretend it's not happening," she admits.

"People will ignore things like that if they can," Anthony says, eyes losing their focus. He doesn't want to remember those things then, but Dick reminds him so much of those days that the snowglobe's base is lead and he can't shake it.

He remembers being eleven, trying to show one of the few adults he'd trusted all the burns along the sides of his face that his mother had left there. He tried to tell his uncle-by-marriage who had done that to his face, but the older man had only smiled, patted his perfectly done, doll-like hair and told him to be more careful with the curling iron.

"Mr. Wright?" Dick's voice brings him back to the moment, and he realizes there's a puddle of bubblegum flavored moisture on his slacks, dripping from his hand.

"Yes?" he asks, bringing his hand to his mouth to suck off what had dribbled over his thumb.

"You checked out for a minute, there," she says.

"I'm sorry."

"Maybe I should drive us home?" Duane offers, but Anthony shakes his head.

"It's alright. I was just lost in thought for a moment," he promises. "Dick, in the morning, we should call Miss Davidson, explain the situation to her and see what she can do. At the least, I'm sure she wouldn't mind you staying with them for a few days."

"Yeah," Dick responds, sounding a bit far away, "I just don't want to explain the whole situation. I feel like a jackass, asking for help and playing the victim."

"You ain't playing anything, kid," Duane says, turning in his seat to look at her. "You gotta get out of a bad situation if you can."

"I know, but," and she stops to tear a bite out of her cone like she's angry with it, "I don't like people feeling sorry for me," she finishes around a mouthful.

"It is a shitty feeling," Anthony agrees, "but it goes away eventually," and that ends that conversation.

Later that evening, after a drunk Mary and Chelsea have torn through a pint of rocky road, Alex managing to steal a bite and keeping the ladies from contaminating it with liquor, Con-El shows up. The teens run off to Jeremy's room, and Anthony decides he's finally earned the right to relax. He washes his hands and face, managing not to look at himself in the mirror because he knows he won't like what he sees, and flops into his bed wearing only a pair of sleep pants. He regrets the action as pain bolts through his body and he sees green flecks of light firing off behind his eyelids. He manages to get the blanket over himself and falls asleep before he finds out who comes to cuddle with him.


	29. Chapter 29

When Anthony wakes, he figures he must not have been asleep very long because no one is spooning him. There is, however, a mass of curly brown haired teenage boy sitting on the end of the bed.

"Jeremy," Anthony sighs, "what're you doing in here?"

"Didn't mean to wake you up," he says, "but Con-El and Dick started talking about fanfiction and I didn't want to be a part of that. Mary, Chelsea and Alex are playing video games on the couch, and there's no room for me." He turns toward Anthony. "Duane's cooking something. Maybe I should be watching to make sure he doesn't burn the house down," he jokes.

"He's lived on his own for several years," Anthony says with a groan as he tries to stretch out. "He knows how to handle a stove. Mm, what's he makin'?" the blonde asks, his eyes little more than slits and his voice thick with sleep.

"Probably breakfast since it's four in the morning," Jeremy complains, kicking off his shoes and curling into Anthony's less injured side.

"Jeremy," the blonde warns.

"What did I say before?" Jeremy asks, burying his face in the other's armpit.

"We both know it's not like that, I know, but," and he sighs, "if anyone saw," he trails off.

"No one's gonna see here. I won't be like this in public, so just let me snuggle, damn it," the boy says, less venom in his voice than he intended.

Reluctantly, Anthony lifts his arm and winds it around the slender shoulders. He ruffles the sleeve of the oversized tee the boy is wearing. "It better be Saturday if you guys are still awake this late," Anthony complains halfheartedly.

"Wow, it's only been a week since you stopped at the school and you're already forgetting what day of the week it is!" Anthony pinches the boy's bicep and laughter bubbles up from under those brown curls. "But, yeah, it's Saturday. Even if it wasn't, we'd still be taking the day off since," and he trails off, sighing, "you know," is all he winds up saying.

"Do not let your attendance drop on my account," Anthony says. He heaves himself upright, scooting to lean back against the wall. He sighs when Jeremy moves with him.

"I've only missed one day so far this year, so I'm good," the brunette answers, dropping his head onto Anthony's shoulder. His hands fidget, but he maages to keep every part of himself touching Anthony still.

"What is it?" Anthony asks, not opening his eyes. He doesn't remember closing them, but he's barely awake, so it's less important than the dreamlike thoughts hovering, reaching out with spidery limbs to drag him back to sleep.

"You don't need to be dealing with my shit right now. Not with, well, everything," Jeremy mutters.

"Just spill, before I fall back asleep."

"I, uh," Jeremy starts, bringing a hand from where he'd curled his shirt around his hands to pull at one of the buttons on Anthony's sleep shirt.

"Great start," the former teacher snarks.

"I'm getting to it!" Jeremy nearly squeals, pulling hard on the button. Anthony brings a hand up to shoo the slender fingers away, and Jeremy starts talking; "It's just teenage boy stuff."

"Go on," Anthony suggests, leaning his temple against Jeremy's head. He regrets the action, grimacing when it puts pressure on his injuries.

"So, like," Jeremy tries, fails.

"Teenage boy stuff, or teenage girl stuff?" Anthony teases.

"Fuck's sake," Jeremy mutters, embarrassed. "It's Dick," he finally manages. Anthony hums sleepily. "I don't like Dick, but she likes me. I mean, that's not what I mean, I mean, I don't like dick, either, but Dick is, like," he stops to sigh. "Dick is cool. I like him. Her! I like her, her personality, but she's so," he trails off once more, "manly. I want Dick's personality in Con-El's body. Because I'm not attracted to Dick. In either sense of the word." Anthony chuckles, ruffling Jeremy's hair. "I told you it was stupid."

"It's not stupid, Jeremy," the blonde says, bringing a hand up to ruffle the boy's hair. "You don't have to date Dick if you don't want to."

"I would if she were just a little bit more," he looks for a word and doesn't find one.

"Feminine?"

"Thinner."

"Oh."

"Yeah, so I feel like an asshole. I guess I could deal with her being thick if she was a bit more feminine, but I'm so used to her being manly that it would be weird at this point."

"You two could always work out together, see what happens," Anthony suggests. "You could stand to build some muscle, anyway."

"Hey," Jeremy whines, pinching Anthony's uninjured side. The blonde grunts. "But, like, I dunno. With the clothes she wears, I can't tell if she has anything going on under there or not. I'm just," he shrugs with one shoulder, "shallow, I guess."

"Having preferences doesn't make you shallow, Jeremy. Though, thicker girls usually do have bigger breasts, if that's what you're alluding to."

"I also hear they give killer head." Anthony's brow scrunches in response.

"That is not something I want to think about," he grumbles, pulling a face and turning away the slightest bit. Jeremy laughs, and it makes Anthony smile, even if awkwardly. "You could date them both. You're still young, so it's not weird yet."

"Its never weird, but I don't think Con-El is down with the whole dating multiple people thing. I'm sure Dick would be, 'cause it's no secret she's got it bad for Con-El."

"I don't even get the whole story, and that's still pretty obvious," Anthony agrees. He yawns and somehow gets a mouthful of Jeremy's curls. He starts coughing and pushes at his lips with his tongue, trying ot get the offending strands of hair out of his mouth.

"Maybe I'll talk to them about it after the whole thing with Erika blows over."

"You've got time," Anthony says.

"I mean, about a week. After I turn eighteen, it would be weird if I dated either of them."

"That's right, you've got a birthday coming up soon," Anthony says, and his voice sounds full of wonder because he's falling back asleep.

"'Eah. I'll be an adult and I can get the rest of my stuff from my mom's place and get out of there forever. I'd understand if you don't want me to stay here," he says.

Anthony means to respond, but one of the warm, fuzzy dream-claws managed to get a hold of him and drag him back to the land of slumber.

When he wakes again, it's to the giggles of teenage girls. Anthony makes an irritated noise and cracks one grey-blue eye open, turning a morningtime glare in their direction. Finding Jeremy still curled up at his side and an extra pain in his neck from how he'd slept, he sat up wincing at the pull in his hair when Jeremy's fingers are curled in it.

"If you've taken any pictures," he growls, voice deeper than usual through a scratchy throat, "delete them."

"Aww, but you two were so cute," Con-El says, a pout evident in her voice. It makes Anthony roll his eyes. She deletes the photos anyway.

"I ship it," Dick says.

"I don't," both Anthony and Jeremy say, the teen sounding far more distressed than the adult. "I can't have images like that going around with the recent acusations hurled my way," Anthony continues.

"Right, sorry," Con-El says. She flops down on the end of the bed and Dick follows, shoving Jeremy's feet out of the way. He kicks at her. "So, I called my mom and she's coming down to clear out a room so Dick can stay with us until we get shit with her grandma figured out."

"That's good," Anthony says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Need a hand?" Con-El asks, offering a hand to help him up.

"No thank you. I'm injured, not an old man," Anthony complains. Con-El shrugs.

"Nothing wrong with taking a little help," she says flippantly and Anthony grunts. "Anyway, mom's swinging by. She wants to talk to you, too." The blonde's stomach seems to disappear, leaving a hollow chasm in it's place.

"About what?" he asks, bracing himself on the wall to stretch out after getting up. He gives a good show of not being terrified.

"The whole Erika thing," she answers, leaning back on her hands and crossing her legs. "Don't worry, though, she knows you've done nothing wrong. She wants to offer you one of her lawyers, I think." Anthony lets out a relieved little chuckle. "But, why don't you go grab some of the breakfast your boyfriend made first?"

"Which boyfriend?" he asks, vaguely remembering Jeremy saying something about someone cooking.

"Both of them," Dick puts in. "There's no bacon left, though. Sorry," she says sounding anything but.

"It's alright. I'm more of a sausage guy, anyway."

"I bet," Dick quips, earning herself a bump of Con-El's fist. Anthony sighs fondly and hobbles out of the room.

He's greeted in the living room with Chelsea asleep on the couch. It seems that Mary has left, but Duane and Alex cater to him when he reaches the kitchen, though he grumbles all the while. A large helping of sausage makes him feel better. The caffeine from a cup of coffee coursing through his veins, he starts to feel a little more human and wanders out to the porch to smoke. Duane comes with, using the excuse of wanting a cigarette himself, and Anthony is thankful the other isn't openly being concerned about him this morning. Duane gives him a little nudge when a car pulls into the driveway. The Camaro makes them nervous.

"Good morning, Anthony," says a woman when she gets out of the car. Short, slightly wavy black hair is mussed by sunglasses. An attempt at a smile twists her serious-looking face. She's small of stature, only as tall as Anthony in pumps, but the business air she exudes makes her seem larger. "You must be Duane," she says, looking the taller man up and down as she makes her way up to the porch. "I'm Melanie's mother," she says, extending her hand to Anthony.

"Who is Melanie?" Duane asks as Anthony's hand is captured in a powerful grip.

"Con-El," Anthony answers, returning the strength of the grip. The woman takes her hand back and puts it on her hip, pushing her suit jacket back. "Nice to finally meet you in person, Miss Davidson."

"Please, I'm just Beth," she says, offering her hand to Duane. He shakes her hand much gentler than Anthony had, and the blonde sees her roll her eyes at the careful touch. "I won't break from a handshake, young man," she says.

"I'm older than you," he fires back.

"I doubt it, but I appreciate the compliment." The smile from the exchange is short lived, and she soon turns her attention back to Anthony. "Are you aware that your tires have been slashed, Anthony?"

"Christ," he mutters.

"Don't you worry, I've already called someone to come change them," she says, waving a hand through the air. She's wearing a gold men's wrist watch. "Boy," she says, reaching out to lift Anthony's face by a surprisingly gentle grip on his chin, "someone got you good, hmm? Please tell me you've already taken pictures of these. Your lawyer will need them."

"Yes, ma'am, I have. I was going to fax my lawyer when I went back inside."

"Oh, you already have a lawyer? I can get you a better one, I assure you."

"I'm happy with the one I have, but you wanted to talk about Dick's situation?" Anthony asked, putting out his cigarette. He held the door open for Beth, who gave a little shake of her head and stepped into the house.

"No, I'll be handling that one. Rather, my lawyer will. That poor little girl should have come to me sooner." She takes a seat at the kitchen table, and Anthony offers her coffee. She gladly accepts, and Duane grabs her a cup before Anthony can reach the pot, getting a scowl from the blonde and an order to sit from his lover. "Oh, that's delightful. Better than that swill we have in the office. I should have someone go out and get Starbucks, but when I'm working I forget that coffee places exist."

The teenagers come bounding out of Anthony's room when they hear Beth's voice.

"Mama," Con-El cheers, throwing her arms around the woman's shoulders.

"Hey, Miss Beth," the other teens greet. Dick grabs a dirty coffee mug from the sink and pours herself a cup, dumping several spoonfuls of sugar in it.

"Hello, children," she answers, patting Con-El's arm. "Go and get your things. We're going to head back to the house and clear out a room for Colleen. You're welcome to come too, Jeremy. I took the day off, so we can go get something to eat, if you'd like." Dick sits her coffee on the table and follows the others as they run off toward Jeremy's room. "My goodness, your house must be so noisy with all these children running around. Practicing for your own?" she teases.

"God no," Anthony says, the words slipping out before he can stop them. Beth laughs.

"I'm glad I had Melanie and Connor, but it's not for everyone," she says with a nod. Her expression sours and she sighs. "I do wish Colleen would have come to me sooner. She may as well be my daughter. She and Melanie are attached at the hip. I'm starting to think they may be together and just not telling me. I'd be fine with it. At least I wouldn't have to care for any grandkids before they can support themselves." She looks up at Anthony as Duane hands him a fresh cup of coffee. "I'm gabby this morning. I apologize. I don't really have many social visits these days. Don't let me talk over you, because I will if you let me."

"It's alright," Anthony assures her, "I don't really talk much."

"And how do you manage that, being a teacher and all?"

"Well, that's different. I talk in front of the class plenty, but in social situations I tend to be quiet unless someone asks me a question."

"Or you're talking about comic books," Duane adds.

"Or we're talking about comic books," Anthony agrees with a slight nod and even slighter smile.

"Oh, I remember the days when I read comic books. Not long before Con-El was born, actually. Oh, I had the biggest crush on Cable," she says, a breathy sound passing her glossed lips. She waits almost a minute before she starts to talk again; "I'm surprised you haven't asked me what I know about this business with the Johanna girl."

"Children talk," is all Anthony says. Duane reaches out for the smaller hand and the blonde lets him take it.

"That they do. Luckily, my child considers you a friend and has told me everything she knows, including that she was there when the Johanna girl harassed you," Beth stresses. "You may want to bring that to the attention of your lawyer."

"No one would believe a teenage girl would harass a grown man," Anthony says, shaking his head. His hair obscures his vision and he feels bad for not having brushed it before Beth showed up. He used his free hand to try to straighten it out.

"Don't worry about your hair, dear, I know it's early," Beth says, smirking. "And, of course they would. It happens more often than you may think."

"I know it happens, Beth," Anthony says, looking up at her, "but the general population doesn't believe that. Apparently, until a human reaches the age of majority, they can do no wrong."

"Unless they're black," Duane mutters. Beth looks saddened, turning her icy eyes toward the table. "But, we'll get through this."

"Yes, we will," Beth says, her expression brightening. Anthony sees where Con-El gets that devious sparkle he sometimes sees in her eyes.  
The teenagers run by, Dick's things in their arms, chattering as they head out the door. Con-El comes back in a moment later, Dick's backpack slung over her shoulder.

"Mom, there's guys in the way," she says.

"Ah, they must be here to fix your tires. Come out with me and take pictures before they get to work," she insists, holding out her hand and gesturing for him to follow.

He does.


	30. Chapter 30

After pictures are taken and the tires are replaced, Anthony tries to pay Beth for the service and she simply waves him off, advising him to park his car in the garage.

With the teens gone, the house is a lot quieter. It feels almost like it used to, before everything went to hell, for a few minutes. Anthony simply remembers how to breathe for an hour or so, just sitting with Duane in the kitchen, occasionally resting the less injured side of his face on the scarred shoulder he loves so much.

Eventually, as he's considering faxing everything he's recently collected to his lawyer, he gets a text.

Do you think I'm racist?

He sends one back,

Henry?

See, you knew who I was just because of the question I asked, so you must think I'm racist.

Anthony shows Duane the conversation and the older man laughs.

Duane says you're not racist, so you can relax.

Oh, good. Now I just need all the other colors of guys to say it.

Anthony chuckles. He mouths at Duane's shoulder, bringing a hand up to the dark elbow, holding his arm in place. Worries pick at him like a murder of crows on the scraps of a burger, but he pushes them aside in favor of the man before him. He licks his lips, tongue brushing the skin that Anthony isn't sure the other can feel or not, but he presses lips there anyway. He sucks wetly on the curve of the shoulder, and Duane relaxes his arm, watching Anthony with parted lips.

"Can you feel that?" Anthony asks, sucking a kiss mark onto the too-smooth skin.

"Sort of," he answers, his other hand coming up to find blonde locks, too long for the shorter man's comfort. But he starts to like it when long, slim fingers pet his hair reverently. Regret over not getting it cut melts away when nails scrape his scalp and comb through the light mass. "It's just a sort of pressure," and his voice drops low and quiet when he says, "I like watching you do it, though." Anthony drags his teeth over the skin, bites down lightly. "I can feel that," Duane says. Anthony smirks.

"Do you want to make love?" When he asks, his voice is airy. Anthony sounds far away and it makes Duane pull back and take a long, hard look at the blonde.

"Are you really up for that?"

"The kids are gone, Alex is," and he trails off, looking down the hall.

"Showering before he takes a nap," Duane supplies.

"So, yeah. I'd like to. We haven't had a chance to yet, and," he trails off again, moving closer to Duane, his chair screeching on the tile.

Duane pulls Anthony out of his chair, mindful of his bruises, and settles the smaller man in his lap. "We don't have to," he assures the other. "I'm good. Really." He holds the smaller body close, feels a laugh against his neck. Anthony brings a hand up, traces Duane's chin strap with his thumb. "Unless it's been a while for you," Duane offers. "Then you might need to, uh, clean out the pipes. You've been on testosterone for how long now?"

"Eleven years," Anthony answers, resisting the urge to feel his own stubble by pushing the pads of his fingers against Duane's.

"Yeah, OK," Duane says, "sex is definitely a need for you at this point, then." Anthony scoffs in answer. "Hey, man, testosterone is one hell of a drug. Why else do you think ladies are so," and he stops to consider his words, but decides he doesn't need to be careful anymore around Anthony, and nips at his finger, "horny when they bleed? Testosterone, man." Anthony shakes his head, bumping his nose against Duane's jaw. He chuckles quietly.  
"I'll go get my things. Meet me in the attic, yeah?"

Afterward, Anthony opens the little attic window and they share cigarettes. Duane wishes he could've gotten the blonde completely nude, rather than just down to boxers, but he's relaxed, content to pet Anthony's hair with his free hand while they lounge in the beanbag chairs. He doesn't bother putting any of his clothes back on, content to be the blonde's pillow for now.

Anthony doesn't want to, but he falls back asleep. He feels safe, for the most part. A little awkward after witnessing just how beautiful his newest partner is in the throes of passion, briefly feeling insufficient, incomplete, at the feeling of muscles so much thicker than his own under his fingers and the sight of the fully functional length that lay against his partner's stomach. The envy flavored bile gets swallowed in favor of the taste of pride at the beautiful sight, and he drifts off after the last curls of smoke from his cigarette have wafted out the window.

Duane wakes him later, after coming back from taking a leak. The blonde is glad he did, becuase his dreams weren't lending themselves to easing his mental state. He can see that Duane wants to ask when a small hand shoots out and grabs his wrist, pulling it to the side and twisting out like he's going to throw Duane. He can see that Duane is as shocked as he is when his eyes widen, displaying as much emotion as they do in an entire day in an instant. Anthony can feel Duane's heartbeat, as his thumb is on the other's pulse point, and it was higher than any healthy resting rate.

"Gonna give me my wrist back?" Duane teases.

"Sorry," Anthony says, slowly letting go. He pulls his hand back and curls into himself.

"It's all good," the older man answers, runs his fingers through Anthony's hair once before bracing the back of his head to lay him back into the soft masses.

"I should really," and he stops to swallow thickly, something like shame bubbling up in his throat, "fax those things to my lawyer."

"You have all weekend," Duane promises, "he won't be able to do anything with them until Monday, anyway." The taller man gently lays a hand over the bruising on Anthony's ribs, and in the low light he marvels at how his skin almost blends in to the bruise. It's a sentimental feeling, watching himself blend into the man he loves, but when his hand starts to cramp and he moves his fingers, the moment is gone. He almost laughs at himself, feeling strange over comparing his skin to a bruise. But the room is cast in grey-blue hues, the underlying purplish tones of his skin coming out in the right light.

"You're beautiful," Anthony blurts, having watched Duane observing their connection. Duane does laugh then. He smiles and leans down to press his lips to Anthony's, pecking lightly again and again until the blonde smiles. Until he laughs in that reserved way that brightens Duane's entire world. "I really should send those things before I forget."

"But making you forget is my goal," Duane says, placing gentle kisses over Anthony's bruises.

The blonde manages to weasel his way out of Duane's grip, and the older man watches mournfully as Anthony puts his sleep clothes back on. Anthony grabs the gear they used a few hours ago, mumbling about how he should have washed it right away, trying not to wince when he bends over. Duane offers to take care of it and Anthony fires back by rattling off his meticulous marital aid cleaning regiment. The dark skinned man balks and Anthony scoffs fondly, poking him in the cheek with an unlit cigarette. Duane snatches it and lights it while Anthony hobbles off down the stairs.

Duane dresses again, once more in jeans and a tank, the cigarette hanging from his lips all the while. After stubbing out the cigarette on the window sil, as Anthony did before him, he heads down the stairs to find said blonde fussing with the fax machine. Either it's jammed, or it isn't accepting the number, but the smaller man seems to be having some sort of technical issue.

"Need a hand?" Duane asks, hiding a chuckle behind his fist.

"Nope!" Anthony bites out, pushing buttons just a little too hard. Duane takes his arm, wrapping his fingers around the underside of the smaller arm, letting his thumb rest off to the side to the gesture doesn't feel threatening.

"I'm giving you one, anyway," Duane says, carefully pushing away the smaller man. "Why don't you put on some coffee?"

"We out?"

"Pretty much. There isn't even enough for a cup left."

Five minutes later, Anthony has a steaming mug of sugary, black coffee, and Duane is just as frustrated as the blonde was before.

"Alright, I give up. Man, your fax machine is garbage," Duane huffs. Anthony laughs, cradling his mug, looking happier than he has in the last week.

"I never bothered getting a new one because I didn't really need it. Only ever used it to send my tax forms to the lady who does my taxes. Guess it only likes her," the blonde says, voice full of mirth. "I guess I'll get a new one tomorrow."

Duane makes himself a cup of coffee and sits with the blonde. In a quiet moment, they hear Alex snoring from down the hall and their lips twist up in amusement.

"Are you worried about money now that you're not working?" Duane asks.

"No," Anthony answers, giving a little shake of his head, his hair sticking to his stubble. "I was suspended with pay, pending investigation, or however that goes. Not to mention Alex has a job, even though it doesn't pay much."

"Could his job pay the bills if you lost your income?"

"Barely," Anthony says after thinking about it for a moment, "but it could. I own this house, my car and all that, so it's mostly a matter of utilities. Our electricity is always quite high, but I," he considers his wording, "have some money saved up."

"Doesn't sound like you want to use it," Duane suggests, hoping to get the blonde talking.

"Considering it was my parents', not particularly."

"If you didn't like them, I'd think you'd want to blow their money," Duane teases.

Anthony sighs. He looks down into his cup, still holding it. "Full disclosure?" he asks, not looking up.

"Please," Duane says, setting his cup down as well.

"I'm afraid of what it would do to me," Anthony admits. "I don't want to spend money out of anger. I know that sounds a bit strange, but I've seen people do it." Anthony looks up briefly to find Duane listening intently. He sighs. "Money makes monsters out of people. I've considered donating it, or at least a large chunk of it, from time to time, but I haven't yet. I probably won't."

"Been holding onto it in case something like this happened?"

"That, and that I don't want the attention that comes with donating a large sum of money. I know anonymous donations are an option, but there's always a paper trail. If I don't need it by the time I get old, I'll probably do something good with it. I hope."

"If you do anything with it, I know you'll do something good," Duane assures the blonde who only hums quietly. When Anthony takes another sip of his coffee, Duane asks another question; "was money a big part of your childhood?"

"Hmm," Anthony seems to think about it for a moment, taking deep breaths.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"I know," Anthony says softly. "The money itself wasn't that bad. It was how people changed when they found out I came from money that I didn't like." Duane reaches out to press two fingers to Anthony's arm, the rest of his hand resting on the table, when the other's voice takes on that lost quality, when the blue eyes look misty. The smaller man smiles when he looks over at the fingers pressing into his skin. "They either started sucking up to me or treated me like gum on their shoe. I don't know which one I hated more. I didn't want any part of it, so I tried to pretend my family wasn't rich." He moves his hand to trace Duane's knuckles reverently as he continues, "I tried to avoid the responsibilities that came with being a rich child." When Duane looks confused and a little disgusted, Anthony gives a halfhearted smile. "I had an image to uphold. If I wasn't their sweet little southern belle, all dolled up and polite, there was trouble."

"That's not something a kid should have to deal with," Duane argues.

"We," and his shoulders sag a bit, "have to do what our parents want while we live with them. Unfortunately. I stayed out of the house as much as possible so I could be myself. I got my ass whooped when I let a friend cut my hair," and he wants to shake the snow globe, presses down on Duane's fingers so the white flakes obscure the already blurred image of chair legs from where sixteen year old Toni had hit the floor.

"I'm glad I grew up broke," Duane says, starts talking because he realizes Anthony is falling back into his own mind. "My dad died of cancer when I was eleven, so I had that fatherless black kid thing hanging over my head throughout school. Nobody seemed to care that we lost the man to cancer. My sister and I were just more statistics as far as our guidance counselors were concerned. They tried to push me into the military, and I resisted that for as long as I could. They pushed my sister into cosmetology, and that's what she wound up doing. Well, for the most part," he says, moving his hand from Anthony's arm, taking the smaller hand in both of his, just holding it. "After high school, I tried doing whatever minimum wage jobs I could to make ends meet, but it just didn't cut it. So," he shrugs, "off to the army I went." Anthony's hum is just barely audible, and he watches Duane with wide, curious eyes. Duane isn't sure he likes the attention the other is paying to his backstory, but at least his little lover is with him, in the present for the most part, and not lost in abusive memories. Then, an idea strikes him. "Ya wanna know how I got these scars?" Anthony's eyes widen a fraction more.

"If you feel like sharing," he breathes.

"It's a simple story, so don't get your hopes up for anything heroic or anything like that." Anthony nods in response. He licks his lips and tries not to flinch when he realizes what he did. Duane gives a good-natured chuckle and shakes his head the slightest bit. "Our convoy got hit with an IED and I got flung out of the vehicle. It flipped over me, some of the other guys weren't so lucky. The fuel tank ruptured and it exploded. A piece of it actually lodged itself in my arm. I have it at home if you want to see it some time," he offers. He quickly continues, "Well, I got so lucky that there was only some nerve damage and I retained full mobility. One of our guys," and there's a pause, a deep breath, "no, Nate. His name was Nate. He was crushed by the Humvee when it flipped. Some other guys got injured," Duane said, "some pretty bad, but Nate was the only one who," he stops again and when Anthony squeezes his hand, he squeezes back, "passed," he finishes. He's so afraid of how Anthony is going to react that he closes his eyes. He smells smoke and his fingers curl tighter around his partner's hand.

"Are you hungry?" Anthony asks, and Duane's eyes snap open. "We kinda missed lunch," the blonde explains and Duane laughs.

"Yeah, I am. What're you thinking?"

"Fruit salad and ice cream," Anthony suggests and Duane can't help but pull the shorter man into his side. He apologizes when the blonde hisses in pain, but doesn't feel guilty for long because Anthony shoulders him roughly, making him get up.

They pull various fruits out of the refrigerator and cut them up together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anthony  
> [](https://ibb.co/hrUuT5)


End file.
